t LIBRARY OF CONliRKSS. t 



^/y.TS no 3 I 



I UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. J 



STORIES AND LEGENDS 



Itories nni ICegenis ; 



WITH O T H E E POEMS 



> 



BY J'^m ATBONE. 



Liste to these lays ; for some there bethe 
Of love which stronger is than dethe, 
And some of woe, and some of ^ile, 
And of old adventui'es that fell awhile." 
Old Ballad. 



BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED BY MOSES A. DOW, 

"WAYERLEY MAGAZINE" OFFICE. 

1852. 



x^ 



\\o\ 



v^ 



Sn 



ahiertismnt. 



The following poems were written in the few spare 
hours not devoted to commercial pursuits, and several of 
them were immediately published in literary papers, from 
which they are now collected, almost without a correc- 
tion. The reader, therefore, will be indulgent, should he 
meet with imperfections, and marks of hasty writing. 
Had I opportunity, I should most probably have been a 
little more careful in the dress of these bantlings of my 
Muse ; but, as it is, I must trust to the hope that some 
good feature of theirs will prevail on the critic to pardon 
the occasional negligence of their attire. 

Cleveland, 0., July 3, 1852. 



INDEX 



STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

PAGE 

The Challenge, 9 

The Lost Fingee, 19 

Isabel St. Aubtn, 31 

The Seceet Teibunal, • . . 44 

The Oeange Blossoms, 57 

The Last Leap, 69 

The Muedee at Sea, 79 

Isabel, 85 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Memoet, 93 

The Chuech Bells, 93 

Youth's Delay, 94 

The Guaedian Angel, 96 

Love, 97 

Song of the Ceusadees, 98 

The Houe-glass, 99 

Look Up ! 100 

Song, 101 

To a Mouenee, 102 



Tin INDEX. 

FACE 

Fkagment, 103 

Love and Jeaxousy, . . •..,., 104 

Thixk of Me, 105 

Faeewell to the World, 106 

Never Despair, 107 

The Vision, 107 

The Separation, 108 

Evening, 110 

Fill High the Cup ! . Ill 

Farevtell to England, 112 

Lines, 114 

*' Our Arms are Victorious ! " 115 

The Ht3in of the Dying Recluse, 116 

The Evening Star, 118 

Song of the Fishersien, 119 

The Dying Boy to his Sister, 119 



STORIES AND LEGENDS, 



"Faint heart never won fair ladie." — Old Proverb. 

I. 

It was young Morning's earliest roseate flush 
Which in the eastern sky began to appear, 
Spreading itself like a coy maiden's blush 
When first Love's accents meet her willing ear ; 
The piled-up rack of cloud began to clear 
Unwillingly before the uprising light, 
The waning Moon, despoiled of half her, sphere, 
Queened it no more as in the realms of Night, 
But, wan and sickly, turned from Morn's increasing light. 

II. 

The wakeful lark rose from his grassy bed. 
And shook his feathers ere he upward flew; 
Right merrily he tossed his little head. 
And bathed his plumage in the sparkling dew, 
Which from his wings in silver shower flew; 
The blushing daisy turned its golden eye. 
Gemmed with a tear, up from the flowers which grew 
In lovingness beside, and gazed on high. 
Anxious the glory of the approaching sun to spy. 



10 STORIES A^'D LEGENDS. 

m. 
Begirt with many a frowning wall and tower, 
A most fair garden spread its ample space, 
Where, thick entwined with clustering vine and flower, 
Was many a curious bower in shady place. 
Which the fair Emmeline would often grace ; 
When the quick spreading gloom foretold the fall 
Of the refreshing shower, with tripping pace 
She hurried, heedless of her nurse's call. 
And crouched beneath the flowers, the fairest flower of all. 

IV. 

Early that morn, ere yet the sun's glad ray 
Had drunk the nectar in the lily's cup. 
Or kissed the fountain in its wanton play, 
Or smiled upon the lowly buttercup. 
From her soft bed fair Emmeline sprang up, 
And passed amid her flowers, with careful hand 
The flowers borne down by moisture raising up, 
Sighing to think who of the crusading band 
Lay prostrate like those flowers upon the Paynim land. 

V. 
A blush came on her cheek as thus she thought, 
And a tear trembled on her eyelid's fringe, 
For there was one who the fierce Saracen fought. 
One who beneath the scimitar would not cringe. 
Whose settled courage nothing could unhinge ; 
He in the foremost rank was always found. 
And Emmeline 's soft bosom felt a twinge, 
To think how he might lie on Paynim ground, 
His brow with cypress wreath instead of laurel bound. 

YI. 

The blush was on her cheek, nor had the tear 
Fallen from the jetty lash to which it clung. 



THE CHALLENGE. 11 

When sounds of music met her attentive ear, 
An amorous ditty by a man's voice sung ; 
Entranced with the sound a while she huns: 
With swelling joy upon the well-known strain 
Which on her ear like bells at evening rung ; 
Ah ! as she listened to that voice again, 
The joy that filled her soul was nigh akin to pain. 

YII. 

The strain had ceased, and with an eager speed 
She flew across the garden to the wall, 
Beyond whose bounds she heard the voice proceed, 
And with a soft, low voice began to call 
A name dear to her heart ; a sudden fall 
Checked for a space the fluttering of her breast ; 
But when she saw the bold intruder, all 
Her fears fled from the heart unto his prest, 
And she lay on his arm with joy supremely blest. 

VIII. 

There was a deal of kissing and fond looks. 
Playing with hair, and heaving of soft sighs, 
Reading of faces as they had been books, 
Passionate glances in each other's eyes; 
And then a tearful gush which quickly dries, 
And all this time no single sentence said. 
Until the gloomy thought began to rise 
Of danger hovering round her lover's head, 
Filling the heart of Emmeline with gloomy dread. 

IX. 

She thought of the fierce and prolonged strife 
Between the Courcy and the Neville blood, 
And of the victor's keen, ensanguined knife 
Plunged in the heart of many a warrior good, 
Even within the garden where she stood ; 



12 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

And of the gloomy dungeons neath the moat, 
Where the pale victim pined for lack of food ; 
And then she thought how her stern sire would gloat, 
Had he his glittering steel at Herbert Melville's throat. 

X. 

So with a trembling voice she bade him fly 
From the unfeeling walls which girt them round. 
Before it chanced that some oJSBcious eye 
Beheld him venturing on his foeman's ground. 
And waked the fierce old knight with warlike sound ; 
Reluctantly he yielded to her prayer, 
And loosed the grasp which her soft body bound ; 
Casting a look around, but not from fear, 
He climbed the rugged wall as 't were an easy stair. 

XI. 

Her lover safe, she sought her little room, 
Where she might feed upon her thoughts alone, 
For well she knew the youth's untimely doom. 
Should their stolen meeting to her sire be kno^vn. 
Before the castle precincts he had floAvn ; 
And much she dreaded that some eye might spy 
Her firm, elastic step so faltering grown, 
And gather from her dreamy, wandering eye 
Her lover, and her father's deadliest hate, was nigh. 

XII. 

There was a pattering sound of horses' feet 

Leisurely coming to the castle gate, 

A gallant retinue on chargers fleet 

Prancing along the road in noble state, — 

No train more grand on royal prince might wait ; 

And ever and anon some lusty knight 

Would prick along the road at fiery rate, 



THE CHALLENGE. 18 

Eager to gaze upon the lady bright 
vVhom those dark, frowning towers hid from his longing si<i:ht. 



XIII. 

And there were dainty squires with cm-ling locks, 
Who never yet a battle-field had seen; 
And stout retainers, who had given hard knocks 
In many a well-fought field where they had been; 
And gentle falconers in velvet green. 
Bearing proud hawks with jess and plume on wrist 
And beagle hounds ran in and out between. 
Yet keeping from the huntsman, who, they wist, 
Possessed an h-eful mood, and somewhat bony fist. 



XIV. 

A little in advance there rode the knisht 
To Avhom belonged this sho"wy cavalcade ; 
An uncouth made and somewhat aged wight. 
Neither designed to win a blusliing maid, 
Or make a daring foeman much afraid ; 
But he had hoarded mighty piles of gold, 
And many an acre broad of wood and glade 
Yielded their dues unto their master old, — 
What need was there of his bemg young, or fair, or bold? 



XV. 

De Courcy's lands lay nigh those of Carew, 
The boundary mark was but a tiny stream, 
The trees on either side their branches threw 
Across the dividing line, and 't was a theme 
Of chat o'er many a posset bowl of cream. 
Of late stern old De Courcy had begun 
To stray toward the brook at moonlight gleam. 
And, probably, they said, some thought might run 
Within his mind to make the adjoining manors one. 
2 



14 STORIES AND LEGENDS, 

XVI. 
Nor were the gossips in their thinking Tvrong ; 
De Courcy had his scheme akeady planned, 
And a stalwart retainer bore, ere long, 
An oSer of fair Emmeline's dainty hand 
Unto the master of the neighboring land. 
Who could refuse a gem so rich and bright? 
At once Carew called up liis trusty band, 
And hastened, ere had broke the morning light. 
To greet the daughter of so brave and bold a knight. 

xvir. 
They halted when they reached the antique keep. 
Whose rugged, time-stained brow looked Avith a frown 
Upon their coming ; startled from his sleep. 
The yawning warder let the drawbridge down, 
And raised the portcullis with its oak bars brown. 
Shielding himself from the keen morning's blast 
With the huge, heavy foldings of liis gown. 
With noisy tramp the echoing bridge they past. 
And checked their fiery steeds within the court-yard vast. 

XTIII. 

The stout nail-studded door was open thrown, 
And Courcy passed out with uncovered head 
To meet his guest upon the threshold stone ; 
Then, after greetings warm, the way he led 
Through vaulted ways which echoed to the tread. 
Until they reached a spacious stone-flagged hall. 
With massive quaint-carved rafters over head ; 
No loop-hole was there, save in the eastern wall, 
Wliich was pierced through with many a lancet window tall. 

XIX. 

Tlie ornaments that hung on pegs around 
Pertained either to the strife or chase ; 



THE CHALLENGE. 15 

Trumpets to wake the sleeper with their sound, 
Stout leather bolts the warrior's breast to grace, 
Quiver and bow, each in its proper place, 
Short daggers, hunting-knives, and polished lance. 
Sharp battle-axe, and heavy iron mace, 
Pennons which 't was De Courcy's pride to advance 
In many a bloody field fought on the plains of France. 



Jerkins of leather stout, gauntlets of steel. 
Helmets with close -set bars, and many a shield. 
Beside the hea\^ sword which none might feel 
And live, — none like the knight could wield 
That heavy sword in a disputed field ; 
Saddle and spur, and stout ash-hilted spear. 
Whose point the fate of many a boar had sealed ; 
Two surly mastiffs lay the fireplace near, 
Growling low when they saw the stranger guests appear. 

xxr. 

Now Emmeline was summoned from her room. 
To meet her sire and his unwelcome guest ; 
A few short moments more would seal her doom, 
Her future fate with her stern sire must rest, 
And Age thinks Gold instead of Love is best. 
But shall De Courcy's daughter falter now? 
The fire of love burned brighter in her breast. 
And the proud blood rushed to her open brow, 
" The choice shall be my own, or else — the cloister's vow.' 

XXII. 

Proudly she entered through the low-arched door, 
And gave the morning greeting to her sire ; 
Her steady eye evinced no will unsure, 
But gleamed bright with a determined fire ; 



16 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Yet, as unto her father she came nigher, 
Filial affection checked her feelings wild, 
And calmed again her half-awakened ire. 
For at her heart a soft voice whispered mild, 
" A father's voice should meet attention from his child. " 

xxiir. 

Few words Do Courcy used to speak his mind ; 
It never once occurred to him that she 
Whom this rash contract would forever bind . 
Would so ungrateful or so daring be. 
To think her hand to her own will was free ; 
And fearful was his anger when she told, 
With choking sobs, upon her bended knee, 
How, rather than for sordid wealth be sold, 
She 'd pine in gloomy cell, a solemn vestal cold. 

xxiy. 
A trumpet blast rung from without the wall. 
And in a moment's space was heard the sound 
Of the gate's lifting and the drawbridge's fall ; 
Up from her knees did weeping Emmeline bound, 
As a quick step reechoed on the ground; 
Nearer the footsteps came, and in a space 
Within the adjoining passage they resound. 
Alas ! hot blood too soon must stain the place, 
Courcy and Herbert Melville now are face to face ! 

XXV. 

The burning blood rose to Be Courcy's cheek, 
And the fierce passion weU-nigh robbed his life ; 
Naught but his eye and strong right hand could speak, 
And they, alas ! betokened naught but strife. 
Instinctively he grasped his glittering knife. 
And raised the murderous weapon in the air, 



THE CHALLENGE. 17 

But ere its point could reach the intruder's life, 
Fair Emmclino shrieked loudly in despair, 
And sank upon the floor, faint with escess of fear. 

XXVI. 

As thus she lay upon the flag-stone cold, — 
A beauteous lily broken by the blast, — 
Carew bent down with eagerness to fold 
His arms around the form thus loAvly cast ; 
But IIer])crt Avith a stride the laggard past, 
And swore })y the bright weapon that ho drew 
The touch he gave her form should be Ins last. 
Shrinking with coward fearfulness, Carew 
Muttered a faint excuse, and tremblingly withdrew. 

xxrii. 
In sleep, in swooning, — who knows but in death? — 
We feel a kind of consciousness when those 
TTe fondly love bend over us, and their breath 
Our chilly heart again with pleasure glows, 
Even when our senses are steeped in repose : 
Thus with fair Emmeline, — the healthful glow 
Upon her pallid cheek again arose. 
Alas ! that she should only Avake to know 
Her father held her love to be his deadliest foe ! 

XXVIII. 

But a great change came o'er De Courcy's mind ; 
He pondered for a Avhile with gloomy eye. 
Then his stern face gleamed with an aspect kind : 
" NoAv, by my fay," he said, "our feud must die; 
Ne'er was it my fate such coAvardice to spy 
As in yon thing, for Avhom I chose a bride 
Whom he for coAvard fear would not come nigh. 
Thy worth and braA^ery have oft been tried, — 
My enmity is past; take her, and joy betide." 



18 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

XXIX. 

Spare "we to tell the astonished pair's delight, 
Spare we to tell hapless Carew's dismay, 
Spare we to speak of feast and dance that night. 
Or of the happiness of the succeeding day, 
When the old chapel, decked with rich array. 
Beheld the nuptials of fair Emmeline : — 
Those scenes and actors all have passed away ; 
The dark green ivy and the climbing vine 
Now round the crumbling stones of Courcy Castle twine. 



€\)t Inst /iiigrr: 

A LEGEND OF THE COFvNISII WRECKERS. 
FYTTE I, 

Dear Reader, if ever you 've studied geography, 

Chronology, history, or what 's styled cosmography. 

You doubtless have heard that in England there lies 

A country where copper and tin meet the eyes, 

Called Cornwall ; why called so I really can't tell. 

For No-corn-land surely would do just as well : 

As, when 't was first called so, the deuce of a grain 

Of barley or wheat grew on hill, vale or plain. 

Now, the south and west farmers oft boast of their crops, 

And some folks proposed once the growing of hops ; 

But there 's still no mistake in the north coast being bare, 

And that 's all I care for — my story lies there. 

Now on this north coast is a place called St. Agnes 
(The way to pronounce it is rhyming -sAith "pans"), 
And the people there. 
As oft happens elsewhere, 
Have n't always their notions of morals quite clear ; 
In days gone by it is said they were worse. 
And would twist your neck to untwist your purse : 
In fact, they had very loose notions indeed. 
And were going to a queer place at railway speed. 
Their very prayers 
Were queer affairs, 
For instead of praying, as they ought to do, 
For the safety of sailors who trod the deck, 



20 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

When they bent the head 
At the side of the bed, 
•Twas to send them ere morning a wealthy -wreck. 

I 'm inclined to dissent from those who proclaim 
That the Cornish people were all the same, 
That they all were \\Teckers and cut-throat dogs, 
And treated drowned people as if they were logs, 

Chopping oflf a toe, 

Or an arm, or so. 
Without asldng if the OAvners were Avilling or no ; 
That 'twas some people's practice, I don't deny, 
But that every one did so is "all my eye." 
Tliat the folks even now will not "cabbage" a stray 
Cask of spu'it, or what else might come in their way, 
Is n't what I would n't attempt for my life to assort ; 
Indeed, almost every one knows it a cert- 
Ain fact that every Cornishman 
Still holds it Ids duty to get all ho can. 

Once I myself, — 

Not for love of pelf, 
But for whim, or adventure, or what you will, — 

From the dead of night 

To the morning's light. 
Watched the foaming sea till my blood grew chill. 

But though so "plucky," 

I still was unlucky ; 

Nor brandy, nor gin. 

Nor jewels, nor "tin," 

Nor the treasures untold 

Of some nabob old. 

Did I get for my stay 

In the rain and spray, — 

I only got the douce of a cold, 
And an empty cask which fell in my way.* 



THE LOST FINGER. 21 

But such crosses in old time they had not to bewail, 
And so, if you please, I'll go on Avith my tale. 

'Twas a Sunday morn, and a motley crew. 
Because they could find nothing else to do. 
Had come to church, there to hear a prayer, 
And to sleep, chew tobacco, spit, and stare. 
They were as queer a lot as you could see 
In a place where they OUGHT to bend the knee. 

There was Tab, the butcher, 
And ITylo, the tailor. 

And rough Hugh Trevelyan, 
Half miner half sailor ; 

And big John Knox, 

Who could floor an ox. 
And who got his living by plundering wrecks ; 
And half a score others, whose sincAvy necks 
Would each wear a hemp neckcloth, if the law had its due ; 
Fit fellows the whole for a buccaneer crew. 
And there was the parson, just one of the lot, 
A "HTecker, a swearer, a fighter, a sot, — 
You might wander 'mongst all the abodes of men, 
Before you could find such a churcliful again. 

'Twas a Sunday morn, and the wind blew high, 
And the storm-cloud darkened the western sky. 
And the lightnings flashed, and the flooding rain 
Beat heavily 'gainst the window-pane, 
And the waves were dashing against tlie chfF, — 
In fact, the weather was "coming it stiff'." 

The parson was reading aloud from his book, 
And now and then casting an anxious look 
At the window to see how the storm got on, 
And to pray for a wreck ere the day was gone : 



22 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

"From lightning and tempest," the parson cried, 
" Good Lord, deliver us," the clerk replied, 

When a distant gun 

Caused every one 
To start from his seat and prepare for a run. 
"A wreck!" shouted one, "she's on the shore! 
Here's drink for the thirsty and gold for the poor?" 
And people and parson, in fact the whole race of them, 
Ran as if a certain old gent were in chase of them. 

The beetling clifl" froAvns over the wave 

So soon to be the doomed voyagers' grave ; 

The sea-birds around it in circles fly. 

Filling the air with their ominous cry; 

The raven from its peak, high over head. 

Croaks forth a dirge for the early dead ; 

And the chough, from its sable-plumagod throat, 

Makes the cliffs resound with its ominous note. 

The sea ran high, 

And the fierce winds blew, 

The rain fell fast. 

And the lightnings flew : 
In fact, the old folks were heard to say 
Such a storm hadn't happened for many a day. 

Again that gun ! — the gallant bark 
Scuds on amid the waters dark ; 
Faster she nears the fatal shore. 
Where the huge waves in madness roar. 
See, on her deck in terror stand 
Her voyagers — a hapless band, 
Awaiting with suspended breath 
The stroke of an impending death ! 
The mother there, with terror wild. 
Clasps to her breast her sleeping child; 



THE LOST FINGER. 23 

The lover gazes on the face 

Of her he loves ; one moment's space, 

And she, just like a shattered glass, 

Will from his view fjrever pass. 

The aged man, bowed to the earth, 

Returning to his place of birth. 

In hopes that where he first drew breath 

There he might yield it up in death, 

Now finds, within an English wave, 

His darling wish — an English grave. 

Nearer she comes ; with deafening roar 

The waters on the vessel pour : 

She strikes — she shudders — tlicn, at last. 

Comes one huge wave — and all is past, — 

All, save that one heart-rending wail 

Borne on the now subsiding gale. 

The gale having now thought it proper to stop, 

The wreckers were busy securing the crop 

Of watches and rings which the dead people wore, — 

For to leave gold with dead fijlks is rather a bore ; 

So thouglit the St. Agnes men, and so they took care 

To strip all tlie bodies that came to their share ; 

Rings, chains, coats, shawls, watches, and cash, 

At everything valuable they made a dash ; 

So the bodies, when left by those salt-water thieves, 

Looked just like so many drowned Adams and Eves. 

In a sea-beat cave of a frowning cliff 

Lay several bodies, cold and stiff: 

The sailor was there, with his hardy form, 

Which had trod the deck in many a storm ; 

But, just as he gazed on his sea-beat home. 

Had found a grave in the boiling foam. 

And there lay a fair girl, Avith her flice upraised. 

As if, with her dying look, she had gazed 



24 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

On the sky al)ove, with a wish to rise 

Above the dark cloud which met her eyes. 

But what is that v.diich her fingers hold ? 

'T is a prize for the wrecker — a cross of gold. 

A man approaches — 't is sturdy Knox, 

Slowly he cKmbs o'er the slipper}^ rocks ; 

Then he plunders the bodies one l)y one, 

And smiles as he sees what the storm has done. 

He has stolen the locket of the girl sd pale, 

He has e'en robbed the tar of his box of pigtail. 

When a glittering prize 

Meets his wondering eyes, 
And straight to secure it our hero flies. 

A Frenchman lies there 

With his hands all bare. 
Save a bright diamond ring which he happened to wear. 
So frowning and fierce was that Frenchman's face. 
One might judge he had gone to a rather warm place. 

The ring was rich and the gem. was rare, 

'T was surely a pity to leave it there ; 

So Knox tried hard to get it away. 

But it stuck fast and seemed determined to stay. 

What was to be done? 'Twas a shame to be 

Done out of the ring by the grasping sea ; 

lie took out his knife, — 't was no time to linger, — 

And at one blow off came tlie ring — and the finger. 

But now came a scene ; — the dead man arose. 

And struck his rifler across the nose ; 

For, although 'twas no doubt the Frenchm.an missed 

His finger, 't was plain he could still use his fist. 

As my time is noAv short, I can't stay to tell 

How the Frenchman and Knox went to battle pell mell ; 

But after a stiff fight, a la Tom Spring, 

The Frenchman got settled and Knox got the ring. 



:ke lost fingek. 25 



Sevon years, — for that is the time 3^011 must leap, — 

So just fancy that time has passed by in a sleep ; 

A rather long slumber, I must confess, 

But I can bring precedent, nevertheless. 

For one Master Shakspeare frequently stept 

Over double that time, merely hinting you slept. 

So now having snoozed out the last seven years. 

Give your eyes a good rubbing, and prick up your ears. 

'Twas seven years since that fatal vnceck 
Had caused our hero to peril his neck. 
(I don't mean that 't was risked mid the slippery rocks, 
But merely that some day the patriot Knox 
Might be caused some annoyance by one Jack Ketch, 
Who oft proves to such heroes a troublesome wretch.) 
'T was seven years since that eventful da}^. 
And the fame of its horrors had died away ; 
^Vnd the wreckers had squandered their ill-earned gain, 
Save Knox, who still sported a gold watch and chain, 
And a diamond ring, which I could be sworn 
Was the very same ring by the Frenchman worn. 
Round the cheering fire of the "Miners' Arms" 
A rough group was gathered. Seduced by the charms 
Of the liquor which gleamed in their glasses bright, 
They cared not much for the stormy night ; 
The blustering winds which the casement shook 
Gave the leaping flame a more cheery look ; 
xVnd the rain, as it bubbled beneath the door, 
Only made more inviting the sanded floor. 
There were pipes, and grog, and a glowing fire, — 
^Vhilt more was there left for man's heart to desire ? 
Of the guests of the evening I need say no more. 
Than that each one has been in our story before, 
3 



26 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

And with plenty of drink and no lack of money, 
Of course all the topers had got very fanny. 
The butcher was "jolly," 

The baker was "queer," 
The cobbler so "tipsy" 

He scarcely could swear ; 
One miner quite " fuddled," 

Knox, "I can't tell you how;" 
But the parson, poor fellow, 
Was ' ' drunk as a sow ; " 
Though to show that to work he was not yet unable. 
He preached about temperance — under the table. 

The wind blew loud — but they louder laughed ; 
The rain fell thick — their grog they quaifod ; 
The lightnings flashed — their draughts were long ; 
The thunder growled — they trolled forth a song ; 
They seemed to think it consummate folly 
For the skies to attempt to stop their being jolly, 
When a loud "rat-tat" to the outer door 
Caused even the parson to start from the floor. 

Not the lightning red. 
Nor the thunder's shock, 

Caused half such dread 
As that double knock. 
It shook the nerves, it chilled the blood. 
And froze the listeners as they stood. 
The stormed seemed not to know what to be at. 
And the winds even hushed at that dreadful "rat-tat.' 

" Rat-/cr-TAT ! " again it beats at the door. 

And this time it seems with more force than before ; 

And the treml)ling band. 

As in terror they stand 
Look as yellow in face as the floor -covering sand. 



THE LOST FINGER. 27 

But Knox, starting forth, said " I 'm not going to stick, 
Like a fool; I '11 open, though it be to Old Nick." 
He did so, and then, mth a queer kind of grin. 
The cause of their fear made a bow and walked in. 

He "was slender and tall, and his color, I own, 
Partook somewhat of a mahogany tone ; 
His features were handsome, but here lay the evil, 
They were not like an angel's, but more like a devil's ; 

And his voice, I declare. 

Was not sAveet to the ear, 
But filled the hearts of his audience with fear ; 
And it passed through the minds of these heroes so yellow 
That Knox had just let in the deuce of a fellow. 

" You are Christian-like folks," so the stranger began, 

"Thus to keep in the rain a poor wayfaring man; 

One really would think, by your treating mo so, 

I came straight with a message from the ' Old One ' below. 

What the deuce do you stare at? what makes you so white? " 

Faltered Knox, "How the Turk did you come here at night? 

The country is barren, the pitfalls are thick. 

And none but a miner, except perhaps ' Old Nick,' 

Could find the way here in such darkness as this ; 

And so, Mr. Stranger, don't take it amiss. 

Your sudden appearance being at least somewhat queer, 

If I civilly ask you how you came here." 

The stranger grinned and cocked his eye, 

'T was a very queer grin to see. 
Said he, "Perhaps you think I come as a spy, 
But of that you 've no fear from me ; 
I am here, and I 've also some business to do. 
But why, or how I came, is nothing to you. 
So cheer up, old fellow," — here he slapped Knox's back, — 



28 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

" Let 's shuffle the cards, I've a stunning new pack." 
To the cards then they went, with a very ill grace, 
AVhilst the stranger played on with a grin on his face ; 
And well migiit he grin, for their pockets he eased 
Of just as much specie and notes as he pleased. 

The bright yellow gold 

To his fingers rolled 

As fast as ever the cards were told, 
And if he were not the devil, at least it was clear 
That of luck he had got that old gentleman's share. 
He stopped at last, — he had naught more to gain, — 
For Knox had lost even his gold watch and chain. 

'T is n't pleasant to sit, 

The sport of men's wit. 
And feel . that you ' ve been most confoundedly bit ; 

But the case is much worse 

When, no cash in your purse, 
You have no comfort left but a good hearty curse. 
So thought Mr. Knox, and so 't is no wonder 
That he bellowed and cursed like a loud peal of thunder. 
(A " down-eastern " simile, but it makes out the rhyme ; 
I 'd put in a better one, if I had time.) 

The stranger laughed as the miner swore ; 

Knox threatened to floor him — he laughed the more ; 

Till at last he put on a serious face, 

xind with his antagonist reasoned the case. 

Said the stranger, " Why rave so 1 there 's no need to swear. 

Whilst you own such a diamond as that you wear. 

To show you I 'm able to do a good thing, 

I '11 stake all my winnings against that ring." 

So saying, of gold he produced such a store. 

That Knox could not take ofi" his eyes any more. 

'Twas done, — it was over, — the game lost and won — 

And once more Knox found out he was " done." 



THE LOST FINGER. 29 

"Why does the stranger bend his eyes, 

With such a sad look, on the ghtteving prize ? 

What shines on his eyelash? Is it a tear? 

Nay, nay, no tear-drop can linger there. 

Does he half repent his opponent's fate ? 

No, he bends on him now a glance of hate. 

And, stepping towards him with the ring, 

He lightly presses a secret spring 

Which Knox had never discovered, and there 

Lay one little tress of dark brown hair ; 

A tress which on some youthful head had grown, 

Though death had long since claimed that head as his own. 

Knox shuddered with terror, " How know you that ring? 

How could you discover that secret spring ? " 

"Put that ring on my finger," the stranger replied, 

And, quivering with fear, the rough miner complied ; 

And then the dread truth his fevered brain crossed, — 

Ay, there was the ring — but the Finger 1 — 't was lost ! 

Here the records are not so clear as I 'd desire ; 
Some say that they vanished in a flash of blue fire, 
Whilst some say they left for the assize town next day, 
Where Knox was strung up in the usual way. 
All agree he got settled, — how, I really don't care, 
And so, if you please, we '11 just cbop the affair. 



NOTES TO "THE LOST FINGER." 

" When they bent the. head 
At the side of the bed, 
'Twas to sc7id them ere morning a wealthy wreck." 

The prayer used by the wreckers of both Cornwall and the Isle 
of Wight has been preserved. It runs thus : 
" Blow winds and rise sea, 
Ship ashore 'fore day." 

3* 



30 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

" And people and parson, in fact the whole race of them. 
Ran as if a certain old gent were in chase of them." 
There is a story current of a clergyman and congregation in this 
same parish of St. Agnes, who were quietly engaged in the morning 
service, when the report of a wreck reached them. The congrega- 
tion immediately rose to leave ; but the Domine called out to them 
to " start fair, and give the minister a chance ; " then, pulling off 
his surplice and descending the pulpit stair, he gave the signal for 
starting, exclaiming, " Now, my lads. Devil take the hindmost." 



33fikl It. aiilnia: 

A STORY OF ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT. 



St. ]\Iiciiael"s lofty mount and tower ! 
How oft have I, at evening's hour, 
Gazed on thy dusky form upreared ! 
How oft my vision has been cheered 
By the bright star which from th}- keep 
Welcomes the rover from the deep ! 
Oft has that tower in days gone by 
Lit up with flame the midnight sky, 
A signal-light for bloody strife, 
A death-p}Te seeking human life ; 
And nol)lG knight, and low-born clown, 
And sturdy yeoman, hurried down. 
And armed for instant battle, came 
Responsive to that midnight flame. 
How changed the story which that light 
Now tells unto the gloomy night ! 
It speaks no more of war's alarms. 
Of trumpet notes, and clashing arms, 
Of mangled limbs, of dying groans. 
Of orphans' tears, of mdows' moans, — 
It sheds its soft light o'er the wave, 
Not life to take, but life to save. 

II. 
I 've passed within its gloomy walls, 
I 've paced in thought its ancient halls, 



32 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

I 've mounted the steep, narrow stair, 
And gazed into the dungeon drear, 
I've sat within the banqviet phice 
Where the fierce strife of Chevy Chace 
Is sculptured on the walls around, 
I 've trod the chapel's hallowed ground, 
And listened to the tales they tell 
Of pious knights and giants fell ; 
But naught lives in my memory so 
As one sad tale of love and woe. 

iir. 

Passing within the chapel wide, 

My guide bent at the altar side. 

And touched a spring which raised a stone. 

And- then she bade me go alone 

Into the chasm thus displayed. 

And half reluctant I obeyed. 

Twelve little steps, and then a cell 

So very small I could not well 

Stand up or lie upon the floor ; 

There v.'as no loophole which could pour 

A stream of light upon the eye 

Of him who was thrust tliere to die ; 

There was no chance, no m^eans to save 

Him who was doomed unto this grave. 

Fixed in the floor, a ponderous chain 

Lay cased in rust. I climbed again 

Unto the chamber floor, and there 

My guide told me this tale of fear. 

IV. 

The night approached, the day had gone, 
And Lord St, Aub^^n sat alone : 
No friendly knight the time beguiled, 
No gentle lady on him smiled, 



ISABEL ST. AUBYN. S3 

No faithful hound lay at his feet, 
No hawk flew his caress to meet ; 
For he was fierce as beast of prej, 
Savage as wild boar pressed to bay ; 
And ill it fared with those who fell 

Beneath his raging anger's scope ; 
His means of vengeance none could tell, 

None of escaping it might hope. 
With lion valor, none could wiold 
A sword like him on battle-field : 
With tiger fierceness, none could be 
More eager to shed blood than he : 
Of mighty stature, none could dare 
In feats of strength with him compare ; 
None heeded less the power of fate ; 
None hated Avith so great a hate ; 
Yet, strangely, none loved daughter well 
As he loved liis fliir Isabel. 

Y. 

She was, indeed, a thing of light, 

A bright star on the face of night ; 

INIodest as violet scarcely seen 

Reposing 'mid its mossy screen, 

Sweet as the perfume which the fair, 

Kich rose-buds scatter on the air, 

Mild as the softly-cooing dove. 

She was indeed a being to love ; 

And that stern eye, which would not yield 

One glance of mercy on the field. 

Which scowled alike on foe and friend. 

In softer mood its glance wovild bend 

On that fair brow to him upturned, 

And, though in rage he would have spurned 

Him who to plead for peace would dare, 

Yet to her voice he 'd lend his ear ; 



34 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Would bid the din of battle cease, 
And let the land be tilled in peace. 
She did not love the horrid strife 
In which was centred all his life ; 
She did not joy when he returned 

A victor from the battle ground, 
And bonfires on the towers burned 

To spread the joyful ncAvs around ; 
And when he drove Trevelyan's powers 
In terror from St. Michael's towers, 
He marvelled that she did not come 
To welcome him with triumph home ; — 
It was not then his fate to know 
How deep she loved his deadliest foe. 

VI. 

Silent St. Aubyn sat; his ire 
Burned with a fierce but pent-up fire. 
At length, he started from his seat. 
And crossed the hall with hasty feet, 
Then downward gazed into the bay 
"Which far beneath in darkness lay ; 
But notliing met his jealous ej'o, 
No bark or shallop could he spy. 

Beneath the sea-girt hill ; 
No foe or stranger hovered nigh, 

The evening air was still. 
Raging to find his search in vain. 
He entered his lone hall again. 

VII. 

The chamber of fair Isabel 

Lay half way up a lonely tower, 

And it was here she loved full well 
To spend in thought the evening hour. 

Gazing upon the evening star. 

Or, haply, on some sail afar. 



ISABEL ST. AUBYN. 35 

Whose little spot of snowy white 

In the pale moonbeams glistened bright ; 

And often, too, her eyes were turned 

On the small lamp which brightly burned 

Beside the open window-pane ; 

And then her gentle eyes would strain 

To pierce the gloomy shade which lay 

Around the base of that steep cliff, 
Eager to see the shadowy bay 

Reveal the presence of the skiff. 
And now fair Isabel was there, 
Her face turned to the outer air, 
Her eyes fixed on the starry sky. 
Her bosom heaving with a sigh ; 
The harp, o'er whose melodious strings 
Her fingers swept like angels' wings, 
Now lay neglected at her feet ; 
Her spaniel rose the kiss to meet ; 
But he was all unheeded now, 
For o'er that fair upturned brow 
Sweet thoughts were passing, thoughts of joy, 
Of happiness without alloy. 
Of heavenly bliss on earth attained. 
Of happy peace forever gained ; — 
Ah! yet one thought will harshly grate, -- 
Her love is her stern father's hate ! 

VIII. 

Hark! 'tis a call in accents low 

Of ' ' Isabel ! " — well did she know 

The voice that called. She peered around, 

Then swiftly lowered to the ground 

A rope into a ladder twined ; 

The lover hastened up to find 

The maid he 'd sought through all alarms, 

And quick he held her in liis arms. 



36 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

IX. 

What tongue can tell what lovers feel 

When heart is pressed to beating heart 1 
The fond looks wliich their love-vows seal,- 

The joy to meet, the pain to part 1 
Thus Hubert thought as to his breast 
His Isabel he fondly prest, 
And thus he felt as time flew by, 
And brought the hour of parting nigh. 

X. 

In kisses, sighs, and whispers low, 
In joys which only lovers know, 
The first few hours of night flew on, 
But now 't was time he should bo gone ; 
And as he gazed, with tender bliss. 

Into the depths of her soft eye, 
He swore, and sealed it with a kiss, 

His Isabel should with him fly. 
"Nay, Hubert, nay, it may not be ! 
If I should leave my home with thee, 
What dauntless mortal would engage 
To shield me from my father's rage ? 
And hoAV could I so heartless prove, 
His child, all that he has to love. 
From his protecting arm to fly. 
And leave liim comfortless to die ? 
Nay, Hubert, dearest, do not speak! 
His rage, however it might wreak 
Its vengeance on the world beside, 
Ne'er turned one drop of its full tide 
In sullen word or look on me, — 
How could I, then, so cruel be, 
To dash to earth the only drop 

Of joy which sparkles in his cup, 
Nor even there my evil stop, 

But with fierce poison fill it up ! 



ISABEL ST. AUBYN. Sf 

For even my flight would fill "vnth grief 
His heart, without hope of relief, 
Eut fiercer still the pang to know 
I left him for his deadliest foe ! " 
"Not so, not so, my Isabel! 

No foe unto St. AulDyn now ; 
'Tis true that when my father fell 

He made my brothers take a vow 
Of hatred to St. Aubyn's line ; 
Theirs be the vow and hate, not mine. 
For I would heal the deadly breach, 
Our sullen brows would gladly teach 
To cast the frown and wear the smile, 
To change to friendly warmth the guile 
Each house acts to the other now, — 
This is my wish, my only vow. 
Be mine ! — the priestly blessing given, 
Our union smiled upon by Heaven, 
I '11 seek again your father's gate. 
Will fearless brave his deadly hate, 
"Will tell him what the night has done. 
And bid him bless his new-made son ! " 
" Alas ! no arguments or prayers. 
No, nor my heart-broke sobs and tears, 
Covild move him from liis dreadful rage ; 
Fiercely he 's sworn that he ^^iU wage 
A savage war against your line. 
Until no single trace or sign 
Of all your house is left on earth ; 
And sure am I naught can give birth 
To mercy's stream to damp the flame 
Of hatred to Trevelyan's name. 
If once you ventured in his power, 
To us 't would be a dreadful hour : 
In vain should we before him kneel 
To turn aside the uplifted steel; 
4 



#S STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Then tempt me not to what would prove 
The death of all I dearly love." 

XI. 

Thus pleaded she ; but, ah ! her heart 
Bore in her speech but little part : 
She loved, and Avhat true lover feared 
To meet a peril which was shared 
By him she loved? And still a thought 
Of peace by their sweet union bought 
Her wildly-throbbing heart would fill, 
And bend her to her lover's will. 
And well his arguments he plied, 
Until, all doubting cast aside, 
She gave a vow, with whispering breath, 
His bride to be, for life or death. 

XII. 

Away, away ! — no loitering now ! 
Remember, Isabel, your vow ! 
One tear at parting, but one tear 
For all those things once held so dear, 
And she was ready at his side, 
His tearful, but devoted bride. 
Softly ! what muj0Bed sounds are these. 
Borne to them by the whispering breeze? 
With lightning swiftness Hubert sprung, 
And the closed casement open flung, 
"When he was grasped by mighty hand, 
And a stern voice desired him "Stand! " 
With brow o'erspread with fearful gloom, 
St. Aubyn leaped into the room. 

XIII. 

"Ha! son of my most deadly foe! 
Has then your knighthood sunk so low 



ISABEL ST. ^AUBYN. 39 

To seals my chamber-walls at night 
And beg my daughter share yovir flight? 
Be it so ! I can but like it well, 
That jou into my power fell ; 
I 'II make thee suffer such a death 
That all mankind shall hold its Ijreath 
In terror but to hear the fate 
Dooined thee by my undying hato ! 
And thou, fair minion, child no more, 
On thee shall close the convent door ; 
The Kght of heaven no longer thine, 
In wasting sorrow thou shalt pine ! 
But ere thou goest thou shalt know 
The death I give my hated foe ; 
Yes, thou shalt see his fearful doom, 
Shalt leave him in his living tomb ! ' ' 
Thus saying, he stamped once on the floor ; 
A dozen menials burst the door, 
And stood St. xVubyn's will to know 
Towards the youthful captive foe. 

XIV. 

With a glance of defiant pride 
The gallant Hubert dashed aside 
The menials who to bind him came, 
And sternly said, " JNIy household name, 
And this proud lion badge I wear, 
Will show I do not yield to fear. 
Lead on! if 'tis to instant death, 
I fear not to yield up my breath 
To Him who gave it. If your hate 
Decrees for me a lingering fate, 
Prepare your tortures, — I'll not flinch, 
Though fires consume me inch by inch ! 
I need no bonds ; Trevelyan's heir 
Will never yield to coward fear." 



40 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Thus said he, and with fearless eye 
He proudly left the room — to die ! 



Red torches throw their glare around 

On fretted roof and blazoned pane, 
And a dull, heavy, hammering sound 

Is heard within the sacred fane ; 
It ceases, and the tread of men 

Resounds along the passage floor ; 
There is a moment's pause, and then 

They enter through the chapel door ; 
St. Aubyn first, with sullen brow, 
Which told his victim even now 
There was no chance or hope to save 
His life from an immediate grave. 
But little feared the gallant youth ; 
He 'd fearless told the unmasked truth, 
How he had loved fair Isabel, 
And wished to stay war's dreadful knell 
But bitter scorn and taunting rail 
Were all the answers to his tale. 



XVI. 

Fast by the holy altar's side 
Was a deep chasm, yawning wide 
To close the victim in its jaws. 
A moment's stay, a breathless pause. 
And then, with look of deeper gloom, 
St Au])3'n stepped beside the tomb. 
And, pointing to the pit below, 
Pronounced the doom : " Trevclyan, know 
The fearful doom I have decreed ; 
Thou art not struck, thovi shalt not bleed. 
Yet earth shall close above thy head, 
And, living, thou shalt be as dead. 



ISABEL ST. AUBYN. 41 

Chained do^Yn unto the dungeon floor, 
Thy feet shall never wander more, 
Thine eyes shall never see the light. 
To thee it shall be lasting night ; 
And madly thou shalt call on Death 
To rob thee of thy lingering breath ; 
And thou shalt sometimes hear the tread 
Of passing feet above thy head, 
But vainly shalt thou call for aid 
When thou in that dark tomb art laid. 
Pass on, -within thy grave to lie. 
And there of cold and hunger die!" 

XVII. 

The voice had ceased, and Hubert turned ; 
One lingering wish for life returned. 
As he gazed on fliir Isabel. 
'T was passed — and now one last "Farewell," 
And he had turned him to his death : 
But one low call of failing breath 
His progress stayed ; he broke, with force. 
From those Avho strove to stay his course. 
And clasped the maiden to his heart ; 
One farewell kiss, and now they part: 
One glance of love Trevelyan gave, 
Then passed down to his hving grave. 
The sturdy menials rose again 
From fastening Hubert's dungeon chain. 
The stone was lowered to its bed. 
And all trace of that place of dread 
Was moved with care ; but when the stone 
Was fixed in earth, a hollow moan. 
And then a shriek of wild despair. 
Rang out upon the midnight air, 
And stern St. Aubyn's once loved child 
Was carried forth — a maniac wild ! 
4* 



42 STORIES a:\^d legends. 

XVIII. 

From one side of the castle ■wall 

A stone dropped from the hand Avill fall 

Far down into the surge below ; 

And hardy he who dares to go 

So near it as to see the foam. 

'T was here the maniac used to roam, 

And, heedless of the passing gale, 

Told to the waves her horrid tale. 

One night, when tempests fJled the air, . 

Again she, heedless, wandered there ; 

And never, from that fearful hour. 

Returned she to her lather's tower. 

Such is the tale they shuddering tell. 

Of lost, unhappy Isabel. 

XIX. 

Four hundred years had passed away ; 
The castle, sinking to decay, 
Required the hand of man to raise 
Its falling walls and crushing bays. 
Here, as the workmen struck the ground, 
The earth gave back a hollow sound ; 
They raised the stone, they found the stair, 
The secret tomb was now laid bare ; 
There in that cell, chained to the stones, 
They found Trevelyan's mouldering bones. 



NOTES TO "ISABEL ST. AUBYN." 

" It sheds its soft light o'er the wave, 
JS'ot life to take, but life to save." 

The beacon tower of this powerful feudal keep now serves as a 
light-house, to warn mariners of the dangerous reefs near at hand. 



ISABEL ST. AUBYN. 43 

*' Where the fierce strife of Chevy Chace 
Is sculptured on the walls around." 

Tho hall or banquet-room is ornamented with a curious frieze, 
running all round tho walls, representing the A^arious scenes in that 
famous hunt, from the setting out to the scene of carnage in which 
it terminated. 



Some few years since, in digging within the Chapel of St. Michael's 
Mount, a small cell was discovered near the altar, as described in 
the poem, and in the cell was the dried skeleton of a man chaiaed 
to the floor. 



€l;r Irrrrt €riliunnl: 

A LEGEND OF WESTPHALIA. 
I. 

The mass was done ; the voice of prayer 
Had ceased Avithin the sacred fane ; 

Heaven's tribute paid, and worldly care 
Had claimed the worshipper again. 

II. 
The mass was done, and priest and lay 
From the rich altar turned away ; 
The organ's swelling peal no more 

Filled the rapt soul with visions bright, 
No more the sanctuary floor 

Shone in the altar's blaze of light. 
The sudden change from light to gloom 
Made the huge church look like a tomb. 

III. 
The organ ceased, the priests had gone, 
Yet still the worshippers knelt on ; 
Wide open swung the great oak door, 
Yet no one left the stony floor, 
For the proud baron had not stirred, 
And daring he whose step was heard 
Upon the threshold floor before 
The Baron Otto passed the door. 



THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 45 

But now he proudly looked around, 
And, calling to his favorite hound, 
He turned to leave, whilst every head 
Bent humbly at his heavy tread. 

IV. 

Not half way had he trod the aisle, 

When that proud glance, half frown, half smile. 

Was changed to one of great surprise, 

As a stern rabble met his eyes. 

With hurried steps their progress speeding 

Towards the sacred building's door ; 
But, at his haughty glance receding, 

One of them only crossed the floor, 
And, rushing up the open way, 
Fiercely dcsu'cd the baron stay. 

y. 

"Stand, Otto! perjured baron, stand! 
Nor dare to lift thy recreant hand 
Against one cursed enough by thee ! 
Threaten thy vassals, — I am free. 
Thou traitor baron, give me back 
The child thou hast stolen : would the rack 
Had torn me limb from limb, ere I 
Had to thy hated towers come nigh ! 
Give back my child, or else my knife 
Shall quickly end thy traitorous life! " 

VI. 

With scornful glance the baron gazed 
On the keen knife the peasant raised. 
And with one blow from his bright brand 
He struck the weapon from the hand 
Of him who held it, and with pride 
Desired the peasant stand aside. 



46 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

yir. 
"Make way for thee, proud baron? — No ! 
Rather thy arm should strike me low. 
This morn, from chase returned, I sought 
^ly humble home, my much-loved cot, 
"Where I had left all I held dear,— 
A jewel fit for kings to wear, — 
My only daughter, she whose name 
Is hallowed with a village fame. 
For loveliness and worth combined, — 
How great my agony to find 
Myself of home and child bereft, 
jNIy pretty cot a ruin left, 
My household treasures cast around, 
jMy vine-trees levelled with the ground, 
And, -bitterest woe, my darling child, 
She who the weary hours beguiled 
With many a song and ancient tale, — 
She who, wdien my rough cheeks were pale, 
And this strong frame with sickness boAved, 
And my stout heart by suffering cowed. 
Hung o'er me, like a being of light, 
Day after day, night after night. 
Smoothed my rude pillow, gave me drink, 
And, when my wearied thoughts would sink 
In fitful slumbers, made her care 
To keep all noises from my ear, — 
Yes, she, even she, by thy cursed hand, 
Aided by thy marauding band. 
Was carried from her father's cot, 
And borne to that detested spot 
AYhere thou dost reign in gloomy state, 
Environed by a people's hate ! 
Give back my child ! I '11 pardon all 
Thy other crimes ; — I will not call 



THE SECRET TllIBUNAL. 47 

On vengeance for my burning home, 
A vagrant through the world I "11 roam, 
Rather than cross thy path again. 
What ! are my anxious pleadings vain ? 
Dread baron, at thy feet I kneel ; 
And swear, by all the pangs I feel, 
To be thy vassal, if 'twill gain 
JMy daughter to my arms again ! 

VIII. 

"No word of comfort for my ear? 

At my torn heart a sickening fear 

Is creeping ; — say it is not truth 

That thou hast TVTonged her virtuous youth ; 

Thou could'st not do it ! Spare my car 

The listening to that tale of fear ! 

Look ! yester-eve these locks were jet ; 

Time had not placed his foot as yet 

Upon my head one spot to bare. 

Or whitened w^ith his touch one hair ; 

Look now upon these locks of snow, 

Changed thus by one short night of wo3 : 

The task which fifty years of pain 

Had bent their strength to do in vain, 

By miglity Sorrow's magic power 

"Was finished in one little hour. 

Look at my haggard face, — those tears 

111 suited to ray ripened years ; 

If thou wouldst humble me, behold ! 

He that ne'er bent to power or gold 

Now weeping kneels, with sorrow wild, 

And begs thee to restore his child ! '" 

IX. 

Already had the baron's hand 

Grasped the cross hilt of his keen brand ; 



48 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Already had his glaring eye 

Shot terror in the vassals by ; 

And ere one moment would have passed, 

The peasant would have breathed Ms last ; 

But a wild cry smote on the ear, 

And smote the baron's heart with fear. 

Again is heard that mournful wail, 

Which carries to the ear a tale 

Of sorrowing hearts and weeping eyes, 

Seen when some dearly loved one dies ; 

The kneeling peasant raised his head. 

And faced the door with looks of dread. 

He watched a mournful party pace, 

With solemn step, on to the place 

Where he was kneeling, and with care 

They bore a burden on a bier. 

They needed not to lift the pall, — 

His bursting heart had told him all ! 

X. 

The lilies scattered o'er the bier 
Than that pale corse are not more fair ; 
Those eyelids, now as fixed as stone, 
Hide eyes that once like diamonds shone ; 
When those bright lips were wont to move, 
How many the dear sounds did love ! 
How many sped to do her will ! 
Alas ! how motionless and still 
Those fading lips are lying now ! 
What icy coldness that fair brow 
Returns unto the father's kiss ! 
And must all beauty end like this ? 
Must she who, yesterday the pride 
Of all who knew her, turned aside 
Mighty and humble, young and old, 
Her wondrous beauty to behold, — 



TItE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 49 

Must she lie, on the next day's mom, 
Cold as the grave to which she is borne ? 
Even so ; Death grasps his fated prey 
AUke from fair and foul. Decay 
KJQOws no distinction in the tomb, 
And steals alike from all the bloom. 



XI. 

The bearers told, ^dth choking iDreath, 
The story of her sudden death : 
How she had formed a rope to lower 
Herself from the detested tower ; 
And how the rope, too weak to bear 
Suspended in the upper air 
The maiden's form, had burst, and cast 
Her down to earth, where, as they passed, 
They fovmd her dying, and had brought, 
By her last wish, unto this spot 
Her lifeless body, that the sight 
Might turn proud Otto's day to night, 
And there Vvithin the sacred wall 
Might unto Heaven for vengeance call. 

XII. 

With haggard face and wandering eye 
The father gazed around, to spy 
Some gleam of comfort from the crowd ; 
But each in sympathy had bowed 
The head in deep and silent prayer, 
And a low groan told that despair 
Had seized upon him ; but a while 
He saw the baron's mocking smile, 
And a new fire burned in his heart. 
With a wild cry and sudden start, 
He seized the baron with a grasp 
Firm as a drowning sailor's clasp ; 
5 



50 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

And, pointing Avlicre the body lay, 
lie cursed him by the lifeless clay. 

XIII. 

" Feast on thy triumph, murderer, now ! 

But, by the damp upon my brow, 

Which tells the agony I feel. 

And by the burning tears which steal 

Down my rough cheeks, which till this hour 

Have rarely felt the tearful shower, — 

Though vengeance I may not take here, 

Yet, by yon sacred corse I swear. 

When next we meet, my dagger good 

Shall bathed be in thy foul blood! 

The church's roof surmounts us now, — 

Unto the church's power I bow ; 

Nor would I stain these sacred stones 

With thy base blood, although thy groans 

Were gladdening music to my ear, — 

Thy death must be not now or here. 

No priest shall shrive thee when thou dicst. 

No leech shall tend thee when thou liest 

Upon thy sudden bed of death. 

No loving friend shall watch the breath 

As it just hovers on the lip ; 
When thou art all alone, pale Death 

Shall seize thee -with relentless grip, 
^lark me, — I go to plead my cause 
Before a court whose dreaded laws 
Respect no power or place; tlie arm 
Of mightiest noble, with alarm. 
Falls to the side, when that dread poAver 
Has once proclaimed the dying hour. 
Unto that Secret Court I so, 
For justice on my bloodstained foe ; 



TnE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 51 

And cursed be he who says me nay, 
And woe to him who stops my way ! " 

XIV. 

When he had spoken, from the ground 

He lifted that Mr piece of cla}-, 
And, save his footsteps, not a sound 

Was heard as he strode on his way, 
Bearing the body of his child, 
On which he gazed with anguish wild. 
Onward upon the leaf-strewn track ! 
Onward unto the forest black ! 
For there stern justice, which had fled 
The baron's castle towers of dread. 
Beneath a gloomy spreading tree 
Made kings and nobles bend the knee 
Before its mighty power. There 
The lowly peasant, void of fear. 
Might call for justice on the king ; 
There weeping damsels knelt to -wring 
Their hands in grief, and then to bless 
The power that gave their wrongs redress. 
Secret the trial ; secret, too. 
The dreaded judges ; no one knew 
Those men in masks, whose powerful law 
;Made warriors' spears as broken straw : 
Sudden the doom by it decreed. 
Yet few unjustly made to bleed. 
This was the court whose arm of might 
The peasant sought, that Sabbath night. 

XV. 

Four roads meet in a lonely place ; 
And here, upon this barren space, 
A blasted oak, -with arms all white. 
Seems like a spectre in the night. 



52 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

When next the blushing morning broke, 

Deep in the trunk of that old oak 

A dagger, by a cord entTsdned, 

Was plunged with force, and in the wind 

A paper fluttered, telling all, 

"Otto, for many crimes, must fall. 

And knightly sword or vassaFs knife 

May take the outlawed baron's life ; 

And blessed be that home-thrust steel 

Which to him sudden death shall deal ; 

And cursed be he who hand shall lay 

On him who the doomed wretch shall slay." 

XYI. 

Bright lights were glittering from the wall 

Of an expansive Gothic hall. 

And threw, at times, their flashing gleam 

On quaint-carved stone and polished beam ; 

And many a branch of green oak hung, 

And many a blazoned banner swung, 

Above a massive table, where 

Lay a grand banquet, rich and rare. 

Hung round the walls were spears and shields. 

Hacked by the blows of many fields ; 

And gloomy suits of armor stood, 

As if encasing flesh and blood. 

Rough barons and fair-silken lords 

Were seated at the festive boards. 

And stout retainers paced the floor, 

Or stood around the open door. 

Loud rang the laugh, the circling jest 

Gave to each dainty dish a zest ; 

And quick the flagon passed around. 

And, high above the laugh, the sound 

Of chnking goblets met the ear. 

And reckless speech and noisy cheer 



THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. '53 

Told that the pleasures of the night 
Had almost reached their utmost height. 

XVII. 

By copious draughts of wine made bold, 

The Baron Otto jesting told 

Of the fierce threat the peasant gave, 

Of his quick death and lonesome grave. 

More desperate yet, he boldly dared 

The silent power which all men feared, 

Refused unto its will to bow, 

And dared its voice to threat him now. 

With naked sword the baron rose. 

As if to meet his secret foes, 

And gazed towards the open door 

To watch who crossed the rush-strewn floor. 

Both guests and vassals also turned, 

And many a proud heart inward burned 

To meet their terror face to face. 

And all their former fears ejSlice. 

But now their fierce display was vain. 

And all came to their seats again. 

Scarcely had Otto gained his seat. 

When once more he leapt to his feet. 

And pointed to the table, where 

Lay that which chilled then* hearts with fear : 

A blood-stamed dagger, bound ^\dth cord, 

Stood quivering in the festive board. 

And a small scroll, in letters red. 

Pronounced this doom on Otto's head: 

"Night flies and morning comes, but thou, 

Proud Otto, unto death must bow, 

Before the morrow morn shall break. 

Thou art threatened by no power weak, 

Whose warning thou canst treat with sport, 

Thy doom is from the Secret Court." 
5* 



54 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

XVIII. 

In vain did the doomed baron ask 
What hand had done the daring task. 
Otto's own vassals stood around, 
And they averred no sight or sound 
Had told them of a stranger near ; 
And so, with heart oppressed -s^ith fear, 
He tm-ned him from the banquet room, 
And, hastening through the solemn gloom 
Which o'er the echoing gallery hung, 
Up the stone stair he lightly sprung, 
And, gaining his own chamber door. 
Fear fell upon his heart no more ; 
For here, at least, he deemed his life 
Was safe against the assassin's knife ; 
Yet, .that he might feel more secure, 
He bolted safe the thick oak-door. 
Drew from its sheath his keen-edged brand. 
And clutched its hilt with nervous hand ; 
Then placed his back against the wall, 
Resolved he would not tamely fall. 

XIX. 

Night settled on the lofty towers, 
And slowly the dull, gloomy hours 
Dragged on their one unchanging way. 
How slowly comes the wished-for day 
Unto the weary, restless eyes 
Of him who an a sick-bed lies ! 
How eagerly he prays for light ! 
How long appears that restless night ! 
And if he feels such thoughts of dread, 
As he lies on his fevered bed. 
What added terror would he feel, 
Did he expect the assassin's steel 



THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 55 

In the still hours of the night ; 

And knew, too, that the morning's light 

Would bring him safety ; how he 'd pray 

For dawning of the blissful day ! 

And thus felt Otto ; Hope and Fear 

Whispered by turns into his ear ; 

By turns gained mastery o'er his breast, 

And banished every thought of rest. 

XX. 

But sleep will come ; man's powers, strained 

Beyond their pitch, before is gained 

The object aimed at, oft will fall 

Back into rest, and ruin all. 

And Otto slept upon his seat ; 

His sword had flillen to his feet, 

And he was all unarmed, — his life 

Lay open to the assassin's knife. 

xxr. 
There was a sound beside the bed, 
A sound as of a man's soft tread ; 
And then a panel, which had hid 
A secret stair, now backward slid. 
And a man masked, and in his hand 
Bearing along a glittering brand, 
Stepped gently on the oaken floor. 
And closed again the secret door. 
Slowly and softly did he kneel, 
And grasp the baron's fallen steel, 
Which he cast to the outer air, 
Then, with a thunder voice of fear, 
Bade Otto wake ! He raised his head, 
And faced his foe with look of dread ; 
Well might he quail beneath the ire 
Of his unhappy victim's sire ! 



56 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

XXII. 

When morning came, the vassals found 
The baron's body on the ground ; 
Hard by his side the servants pale 
A token found, which told the tale, — 
A small, but keen-edged, bloody sword, 
The hilt encircled with a cord. 



NOTE TO "THE SECRET TRIBUNAL." 

'■'A dagger by a cord entmned." 

Everybody knows, or ought to know, by this time, that this was 
the emblem of the formidable Secret Society that once held its sway 
in the forests of West|jhalia. • 



€lje (Drnngt SfilnsHnins: 

A SPANISH STORY. 
I. 

What means that thrice-repeated knell? 

Listen ! it is the Angolos l)ell 

Which beats thus slowly on the air, 

Calling the citizens to prayer : 

And through the streets of ^Madrid now 

The proudest head will hum1)ly bow ; 

The quarreller will check his strife, 

The murderer sheathe his brandished knife, 

The miser drop the glittering gold, 

The traveller stay his tale half told. 

The hnsj trader drop his ware, 

And each one offer up a prayer 

In memory of our Saviour's birth. 

And his descent to our vile earth. 

The bell has stopped, and ere its sound 

Has ceased to vibrate on the ear. 
Devotion flies from all around, 

And melts, hke that faint sound in air. 
The noble proudly lifts his head, 
And stalks along with pompous tread ; 
Again is heard the noisy strife, 
Again the assassin lifts his knife ; 
The miser's trembling fingers grasp 
The clinking coin with eager clasp; 



58 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

The wondrous tale again is told, 
The trader's wares are quickly sold. 
Thus, like the image which the glass 
Reflects as we before it pass, 
So seeming permanent and clear, 
Did their religious zeal appear ; 
And then, as we that image find, 
It passed, nor left a trace behind. 

II. 
Not so with all ; the solemn knell 
Of that far-sounding evening bell 
To some not only struck the ear. 
But filled the heart with visions dear. 
As the lone widowed mother kneels 
Befor.e the cross, the tear-drop steals 
Down her pale cheek; for short the time 
Since one yet in his manly prime, 
And a sweet girl, their mutual pride, 
At that same hour knelt by her side ; 
And now alone she bonds her head. 
For they are numbered with the dead. 
That bell! as the old patriarch sinks 
Upon his trembling knees, he thinks 
Of days long, long ago, when he. 
An active stripling, bent the knee 
Before the roadside cross, and prayed, 
Still thinking of his black-eyed maid. 
The lonely orphan kneels to weep ; 
In happier days she used to creep 
Into her mother's clasp, and there 
Send up to Heaven her childish prayer ; 
Her guardian saint her mother blest, 
Her paradise her mother's breast. 
The warrior's bride thinks of her lord, 
Pierced, perhaps, by some relentless sword. 



THE ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 59 

Yes, as that bell its warning knells, 

A tide of bitter memory swells 

In many a heart, and eyes whose light 

Outshone the glowing stars of night. 

Now wan and lustreless appear, 

Their fires quenched in the gushing tear ! 

Memory! thou blessing and thou curse; 

Soothing as balmy breeze, yet worse 

Than the black viper's venomed bite ; 

How many of us turn, with fright, 

From the dark visions thou dost show ! 

How many writhe beneath thy blow ! 

How few can listen to thy tale. 

And keep their cheeks from turning pale ! 

III. 
The gentle whispering breeze, perfumed 
By dallying with the flowers that bloomed 
Within the spacious garden, swept 
Along the terraced walks, then crept 
Up the high mansion walls, and straight 
Glided in at a window gate ; 
Here the bright sun's now fading light 
Rested upon a vision bright. 
A lady, of a beauty rare. 
Knelt at the cross ; but not a prayer 
From those pale quivering lips was sent ; 
'Twas not devotion which had bent 
That beauteous form thus to the earth, 
Or to those scalding tears gave birth ; 
No, they were other thoughts than these 
"Which forced the lady to her knees. 
The best and proudest dames in Spain 
To match her form might strive in vain ; 
Her skin, though somewhat dark, jet clear, 
Told she was born in southern air ; 



60 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Her eyes, like those of a gazelle, 

Were large, and dark, and told full well 

The story of the love within, 

A love it would be heaven to vrin. 

One dimpled shoulder lay half bare, 

And over that her jetty hair, 

Which, when her head she humbly bowed, 

Moated around at its free will, 
Lay passive, like a storm-charged cloud 

Resting upon a snoAv-capped hill ; 
The bell had ceased, yet she rose not, — 
What bound her thus unto that spot ? 
Was it that little string of prayers 
Which caused the burst of scalding tears ? 
Was it the thought of that great birth 
Which made her cower thus to the eurth, 
And hide her face from light of day 1 
No ! bitter memory held its sway, 
And, opening wide its book of fear. 
Bade her read all her actions there ! 

IV. 

Whilst thus she knelt, and bathed in tears 

The memory of her earlier years, 

A man flung wide the chamber door. 

And crossed the highly polished floor. 

A shadow fell upon his face. 

And on his heavy brow the trace 

Of coming wrath was plainly seen, 

As he beheld the lady's mien ; 

And whilst the fire shot from his eyes, 

He roughly bade the weeper rise. 

" What, Julia, those eternal tears ! 

Wilt thou not leave those childish fears, 

And learn to smile when I am by ? 

Wilt thou do naught but weep and sigh, 



TKE ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 61 

When I would have thee sing and smile 1 

Hast thou lost every artful wile 

Which would allure me to thy side 1 

Beware ! or check that tearful tide, 

Or it may chance some Mr I'll find 

Of a more gay and pleasant kind." 

The lady started from the ground, 

And, with her eyes cast meekly do^\Ti, 

His chidings heard ; again she raised 

Her drooping eyes, and on him gazed. 

Seeking to gather if his heart 

Bore in the cruel speech a part ; 

Then strove with choking breath to speak. 

Whilst the big tears coursed down her cheek. 

"Juan, in days gone by, your voice 

Would make this fluttering heart rejoice, 

And cause my blood to start and boimd 

With added speed upon its round ; 

But now, alas ! I fear jour tread. 

And at your voice must droop my head. 

At shady eve or sunny morn. 

You only speak in hate or scorn ; 

How can I then my tears repress. 

Tears which a breaking heart confess ? " 

" Complamts again! complaints and tears. 

Hints what I did in by-gone years ! 

JNIust I meet these, and nothing more, 

Whene'er I enter at this door? 

In by-gone days your face was bright. 

Not clouded thus in gloomy night ; 

Whene'er you smile I love you still, 

But sullen tears my love will kill! " 

Y. 

"0, Juan ! cruel, can I smile. 
And think on what has passed the while? 
6 



62 SToraES and legends. 

Can I do aught but Aveep, when I 
Recall the deeds of daj-s gone by I 
I was a maiden then so foir 
No maiden could with me compare, — 
At least, the flattering tongues of men 
Would have me so consider then ; — 
Alas ! my tears have long since drained 
The rosy color wliich then stained 
My youthful cheeks, and grief hath now 
Placed his hard hand upon my brow! 
I lived then in a lovely cot ; 
INIy withered heart flies to that spot 
In many a lonely hour, and there 
Would fain cast ofi" its load of care. 
Vain hope ! to me no peace is left, 
Of every som-ce of joy bereft ; 
My childhood's home no peace can bring, 
As there, with weak, grief-laden wing, 
My memory flies a while to rest. 
Amid the objects once so blest. 
I had fond parents once, who thought 
The virtuous lessons they had taught 
Would keep me honest by their side 
Till I became some good man's bride. 
And I loved them, how deep and well 
Heaven and this bursting heart can tell ! 
Then I was happy ; there was rest 
And peace within my youthful breast. 
At last the tempter came, and lay 
Most skilful traps to catch his prey ; 
How many a deed of battle bold, 
HoAV many a tale of wonder old. 
How many a tale of love and pain. 
Was told, my youthful heart to gain ! 
How oft the vows, by my bright eyes, 
My love above all else to prize ! 



THE ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 63 

Those eyes, once bright, are faded now, 
And all forgot that solemn vow! " 

YI. 

"Did I not love thee? Canst thou tell 

One mark of my not loving well 1 

Did I not give thee riches rare, 

Gems which the proudest queen might wear 1 

And yet thou murmurest ! Hast thou thought 

On other gifts, — they shall be bought ; 

Why say, then, that I love thee not?" 

YII. 

"Gems! will they bring the time that's fled? 

Can they arouse the buried dead ? 

Will they my honor now restore. 

And once more make me young and piu-e 1 

If so, these burning tears I "11 stay. 

And all my sorrow cast away. 

Gems! 'tis not gems or wealth I prize; 

Could I but see your once fond eyes 

To me one look of kindness give. 

Again in happiness I 'd live ; 

I 'd think not of my honor lost. 

My hopes of heaven forever crost, 

]\Iy parents with their failing l^reath 

Cursing me in their hour of death, — 

All griefs, all memory, I would spurn, 

Wouldst thou but love me, in return! " 

VIII. 

Love, woman's love! 0, mystery great I 
Seen and knoAvn only when too late ; 
How strong and measureless thy power 
Appears when comes the trial hoiu* ! 
Love, woman's love ! how its full tide 
Dashes all other thouo-lits aside ! 



64 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

For him she loves, the -woman's heart 

Will break all other ties apart; 

Will all forsake, — her childhood's home. 

The spots where she was wont to roam, 

The youthful friends who loved her near, 

The sisters to her heart so dear ; 

And, more than all, she who had reared 

The tender bud, and hoped and feared, 

As each new day its progress showed, — 

The doting mother from whom flowed 

Her very life, — she too is left 

Alone, of every hope bereft. 

Parents, and home, and wealth, and pride, 

Honor and life, are cast aside ; 

All other thoughts and hopes must part, 

When love reigns in a woman's heart ! 

IX. 

When Julia ceased. Count Juan flung 
Himself upon a couch, then sprung 
Again to his feet, and, sunk in thought, 
Turned as to leave at once the spot ; 
But Julia knelt before his feet, 
And, fearing they no more should meet, 
Begged hiin, by all her love, to stay, 
And she would chase her tears away. 
He yielded ; bade her dry her tears, 
And sing to drive away his cares. 
And at his feet poor Julia knelt ; 
No matter what the grief she felt, — 
Still she must sing, and gayly smile, 
Use every art, try every wile. 
One fleeting look of praise to win 
From him who led her into sin. 
Low o'er the harp her head she bent, 
And as her taper fingers went 



THE ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 65 

With fairy swiftness o'er the strings, 
Her mind had fled, on hurrying wings, 
Back to the time when her sweet voice 
Had made that proud man's heart rejoice ; 
And, thmking on those happier days, 
She sang one of her youthful kiys. 

SONG. 

0, give me one smile, but one glance, as of old. 
Ere your eyes became false, or your heart had grown cold ! 
One whisper of love, or but one heartfelt sigh, 
And in payment full gladly before thee I 'd die. 
One, but one, foohsh kiss, — 
Thou canst not deny me so tri^■^al a boon ! 

Ah ! to me 't would be bliss. 
And I shall have ceased from tormenting thee soon. 

My life, like thy love, is fast fading away ; 
1 have already reached the sad close of my day ; 
But yet I would give to my future no sigh. 
Did I know that my life with thy fondness might die. 
Why, 0, why wilt thou turn 
From one who has loved thee so long and so well? 

Why, 0, why dost thou spurn 
A heart thou hast laid thus beneath thy fond spell ? 

X. 

Her voice grew weaker, as she sung. 
Till o'er the silent harp she hung 
A weeping Grace, nor cared to stay 
The sobs which strove to force their way. 
At first Coimt Juan heeded not. 
For he was lost in pensive thought. 
Until a heavy, heart-drawn sigh 
Woke his dull ear, and then his eye 
6* 



6'6 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Beheld the tears which fell again, 

Like the first drops of suramer rain. 

Maddened to see her bitter grief, 

He started like a guilt-struck thief, 

Nor marked that when he passed the door 

A paper fell upon the floor. 

XI. 

High on her azure throne the queen 

Of silent night, in splendor seen, 

Ruled with a sweet and gentle sway 

Over the sleeping earth, which lay 

Like a fair picture spread below. 

And circling zephyrs whispered low 

Their songs of praise unto the power 

That, gently ruled the midnight hour. 

It was a fitting time to tell 

A tale of love ; for Cupid's spell 

Has double power to beguile 

In spots illumed by Cynthia's smile. 

Embosomed in an orange grove 

Was a sweet spot for tales of love ; 

A bower where every flower that bloomed 

With varied scents the air perfumed ; 

Where Art and Nature lavished all 

Their charms, some further charm to call ; 

Where glowing love alone could reign. 

And sterner passions frowned in vain. 

Here, heedless of the untimely hour, 

A lady sat within the bower, 

And listened to the accents dear 

A lover breathed into her ear ; — 

Deep, earnest words of heartfelt love, 

Strong vows that he would constant prove ; 

Nor wanting was the humid eye, 

The gentle clasp, the deep-drawn sigh, 



THE ORANGE BLOSSOMS. ''^T 

In witness of the tale being true, 
Her love was all the joy he knew. 

XII. 

Hark ! 't was a sob from yonder bush, 

A sob as of a breaking heart : 
The sound called up a sudden flush 

In Juan's cheek, and made him start ; 
But not a twig or leaflet stirred, 
And that sad sob no more was heard. 

XIII. 

Time past, the lady now reclined 

Upon her lover's breast ; 
His loving words, his actions kind. 
Were floating gently in her mind ; 

She deemed herself most blest. 
And, as he looked on her and smiled, 
She nestled closer, like a child. 
Softly the bush, which served to hide 
A stripling page, was pushed aside. 
And the boy to the bower drew nigh, 
Speaking his presence with a sigh ; 
Then, mth a look of mute despau*, 
He glanced upon the lady fair. 
And like a spectre fled away. 
Nor heeded Juan's call to stay. 

XIV. 

Once more that room : 
One little lamp, with sickly ray, 
Struggled against the approaching day. 

And made more dark the general gloom 
A painful silence hung around, 
A death-like sleep the air had bound, 



68 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

And stilled the gently murmuring breeze, 
And checked the quivering mid the trees, 
And hushed the distant water's swell. 
And stayed the night-fly with its spell ; 
A stillness like that of the tomb 
Pervaded the half-shadowed room. 



And Julia on a cushion lay, 

Her palUd face half turned away ; 

A wreath of orange blossoms twined 

Amid her hair, which, unconfined, 

Lay scattered o'er her uncovered neck. 

No glittering gem was used to deck 

Her sleeping form ; but shrivelled flowers, 

Gathered in former happy hours, 

Were scattered round her, and their scent 

With a strong sickening smell was blent. 

Her stiffened fingers grasped tight 

The paper dropped in Juan's flight. 

A page's suit lay by her side ; 

In this she Juan's faith had tried, 

And found it dross ; then to her room 

Had come, and sealed her own sad doom, 

Had poisoned the sweet orange wreath, 

And with it wedded been to DEATH ! 



A SICILIAN LEGEND. 

*' Tell us no more of woman's woes, 
Of lovers fond, and bloody foes ; 
We tire to hear such common tales. 
Now, whilst without doors violent gales 
Kage fiercely, by the red firelight 
Tell us some tale to suit the night, — 
Some tale of dread and chilling fear, 
That we may shudder as we hear." 

"Draw near, then, (how the thunder roars!) 

Pile up the fire, bolt the doors. 

(How pitchy dark has come the gloom ! 

How sulphurous smells our little room !) 

Now, then, attend ! I '11 tell a tale 

ShaU make the rosiest cheek grow pale, — 

A tale told by an aged man. 

With silver hair and features wan. 

He told me, whilst he weaker grew, 

The self-same tale I now tell you." 



PART THE FIRST. 



Night softly fell on roof and tower 
In Naples' ancient town, 



70 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

And Luna, from her starry throne, 
Shed her mild radiance down ; 

And Silence crept through street and lane 

To hovel and to hall, 
And over all within her reign 

Her sleepy veil let fall ; 

And in the fields the cattle slept, 

Unmoved by busy fear, 
Nor marked the prowhng wolf which crept 

Forth from its forest lair. 

The tired peasant slept full sound 

Upon his rustic bed ; 
His sheep-dog lay stretched on the ground 

Beside its master's head. 

An old man, well bent down by Time, 
Rose from his great arm-chair, 

And, leaning on his stout oak staff. 
Walked forth into the air ; 

And, sitting down beneath a tree 
Which wide its branches spread. 

The old man turned unto the breeze. 
And bared his hoary head ; 

To catch the evening's cooling breeze. 
He bared his hoary head. 

Full much he thought of other days, 

When he was lithe and young, 
When he had joined in the jocund round, 
Which footed it to the tambour's sound, 
And many a love-note sung, 



THE LAST LYAV. 7 J 

And as he looked on the ^-iUagc below, 

In his teeming fancy yet 
He could hear the beat of the merry tambour, 

And the clink of the Castanet. 

And he bent his heavy head to catch 

The visionary sound; 
But there M-as no music in the an-, 

No dance upon the ground, 
But a quick and agitated tread 

Upon the echoing ground. 

"St. Mary save!" quoth the aged man; 

"What hm-ried step draws near? 
This is no time for wandering feet 

To press the greensward here." 

And he crossed himself and an Ave said, 

As he rose upon his feet, 
And, covering up his hoary head, 
He tottered on, Avith anxious tread, 

The wanderer to meet. 

Toiling along the winding track. 
With failing foot and bending back, 

The way-worn traveller came; 
Still pressing on, nor looking back, 

Ever he trod the same. 

Still young was he, though on liis brow 

Deep Care and Agony had set 
Then- seals of suffering even now. 

And silvered o'er liis locks of jet. 

His eye burned with a kmd glare, 
A wild, unearthly light, 



72 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

As if some horrid shape of fear 
Was ever before his sight. 

And his unchanging gaze was still 
Up to the mountain high, 

Where rose the sombre-peaked hill, 
Between liim and the sky. 

And though with hurried step he trod 
By cot, and rock, and tree, 

Yet moved he not of his own free will, 
But by power he could not see. 

And every step he onward took 
Was a step of agony. 

The moon from up behind the hill 
Came forth a little space. 

And threw its cold and pallid beam 
Right on the wanderer's face ; 

Its light was not more pale, I ween, 
Than was that haggard face. 

"Now stay, thou weary traveller, 

Stay here a while and rest ; 
To travel further is not right. 
Stay in my cot this weary night, 
And be my Avclcome guest." 

Yet turned he not aside, nor gave 

The offer a I'eply ; 
But his pale face was aye convulsed 

With silent agony. 

And, flinging up his hands, he seemed 
To strive his steps to stay ; 

But that relentless power within 
Bore liim along his way. 



THE LAST LEAP. 7^ 

PART THE SECOND, 

The sickly moon had hid behind 

A sombre mass of cloud ; 
And darkness on the wondering earth 

Fell like a hea\'y shroud. 

The sparklmg stars their fk'os quenched 

In terror, one by one, 
As the huge gloomy mass of cloud 

Came creeping slowly on ; 
Higher and higher in the sky 

The cloud came creeping on. 

And an appalling silence gave 

New horror to the gloom ; 
It seemed as if the earth had changed 

Into a mighty tomb. 

Yet onward still the traveller went, 

Upon his fearful way ; 
Onward unto the gloomy hill 

Which far above him lay. 

And still towards its peak he gazed, 

As, in the moon's pale light. 
It seemed as if the thickening gloom 

Hid no tiling from his sight. 

A heat like fever in the blood 

Filled the unwholesome air ; 
Through night, the heat was fiercer far 

Than in the sun's full glare, 
And sulphurous smells were creeping round. 
And choking vapors from the ground 

Like strangling serpents choked the breath, 
And yet withal was heard no sound 

To tell of coming death. 
7 



74 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

No sound, save here and there a hiss 
Of viper startled by his tread ; 

Or some blood-sucking, loathsome bat, 
Which flapped its wings beside his head. 

Then a low rumbling under foot, 

And a strange trembling of the earth ; 
A short, quick rocking to and fro. 
As if earth felt a sudden throe 
In giving some huge monster birth. 

A ghastly fire lit up the sky, 

A blue and vivid light. 
And bared to the fear-stricken eye 

The secrets of the night : 

The spreading tree, the cottage wall, 

The surge upon the strand ; 
The distant toAver, straight and tall. 

The verdure-covered land ; 
And high in front the gloomy hill, 
As yet dark, motionless and still ; 

And sleeping kine, yet undismayed 
By the loud thunder's roll ; — 

Though but a moment thus displayed. 
The eye drank in the wdiole. 

Then darkness came, and, with a crash 

That si look the sleeping world. 
The thunder- voice of Heaven spoke clear, 
And on the still, attentive air, 
Its tones of vengeance hurled. 

Yet, the pale traveller went on ; 
Briiirht Hash nor thundcrino; roll 



THE LAST LEAP. 7S 

Could his fear-urged career arrest, — 
A greater dread than these possessed 
Was seated in his soul. 

And now a stately tree of smoke 

Rose from the gloomy peak. 
And livid fires from its limbs 

At intervals 'gan break. 

The earth was rocked in manner strange, 

And fissures opened wide. 
From which, Avith fierce and reddening gleam, 
Flowed many a fearful fiery stream 

Down the steep mountain's side. 

The peasants from their tottering homes 

Rushed frighted to the air. 
And called on Heaven their lives to save 

In this their hour of fear. 

Unto the prayer and heart-wrung cry 

The pealing thunders gave reply ; 
And wrathful Heaven writ its ire. 
In characters of living fire, 

Upon the ebon sky. 

Above, below, on every side, 

Red fires met the eye ; 
Fire from out the mountain side, 
Fire in the verdant valleys -wide. 
Fire upon the shrinking tide, 

Fk-e in the arching sky. 

It seemed like a most hideous dream ; 

But yet, for many a year. 
The peasant of an eve shall tell 

Of that dread night of fear. 



76 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

PART THE THIRD. 

He has reached the fiery peak at last, 
At last he has reached the goal ; 

And the heavy spell which had bound him fast 
Lifts up a while from his soul, 

And once more over his palsied tongue 
lie has gained a brief control. 

He fell on his trembling knees 

By the seething crater's brink ; 
Nor to gaze in the fiery gulf 

Did the pallid wanderer shrink, 
But a vision appeared in the curling flame 
Which stiffened to stone his quivering frame. 

He raised his wan and meagre hands, 

To shield him from the sight 
Of the pale vision which uprose 

Amid the lurid light, — 
A lady of a beauty rare, 

Robed in a mantle white. 

Her pensive eyes were turned on him 

With love attuned by sadness ; 
The mournful glance scorched his weak l)rain, 

And filled his soul with madness. 

He stretched his arms to the blazing sky, 
And the hills reechoed his thrilling cry, 
As the Form drew nigher, and still more nigh, 
' While the hissing flames leaped higher. 
Great Heaven! 'twas a fearful thing to spy. 
That Phantom robed in fire. 

The spell had bound him fast again, 

That strong and fearful spell ; 
It wrenched his soul with writhing pain, 

As it upon him fell ; 



THE LAST LEAP. 77 

But now it fettered not his tongue 
From muttering words by terror wrung : 

" Gaze not on me, thou dreadful Form ! 

Come not to me so nigh ! 
I shrink not from this fiery storm, 

But from thy mournful eye ; 
I fear thy touch and breathings warm 

More than I fear to die. 

" The curse of Sin is on thy brow ; 

'Twas I that stamped it there ; 
Thou lovedst me as a sister should, — 

God ! that I should dare ! 
Ha ! whisper not the horrid tale, 

E'en demons should not hear ! 

"I see it all, — thy broken heart, 

Thy lonely bed of death ; 
The dying blessing, when the curse 

Were fitter far thy breath ; — 
These memories have been to me 

An ever-dying death. 

" The mournful look with which thy soul 

Passed from its earthly shell 
Has haunted me by day and night. 
And made this Earth so fair and bright 

To me a gloomy Hell ! 

*'What! dost thou spread thy arms again 

To take me to thy breast? 
With thee, even in eternal fire, 

1 may again find rest ; — 

I doomed thee to eternal woe. 

Be mine its punishment to know ! " 



78 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

He leaped, with outstretched arms, to press 

The Phantom in his clasp ; 
A curling wreath of scorching flame 

Was all that met his grasp ; 
One long and loud blood-curdling cry, 
And he had sunk from human eye ! 



€)}t 3Kiirtor nt §n: 

A FRAGMENT OF A STORY. 

He leaned against the vessel's side 
With folded arms and furrowed brow, 

And with a stern and moody eye 
Gazed on the deep blue wave below. 

Dark thoughts were passing in his mind, 
And chased the color from his cheek ; 

Thoughts, which, although they burned within. 
He dared not to the night-winds speak. 

Thus minute after minute passed, 
But yet he moved not hand or eye, 

When at his elbow came a voice, — 
" Captam, the passenger will die ! 

"All pale he lies upon his bed, 

His labored breath comes thick and slow ; 
He says a fire burns him up ! " 

The captain turned aside to go. 

He turned aside, but there was that 
In the quick flush that came and went 

Which told a tale he strove to hide, 
As o'er the vessel's side he bent. 



80 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

What splash was that, which sudden caused 
The sparkle in his gloomy eye ? 

"Look, captain, look! there is a shark! 
Some person in the ship will die." 

He turned aside and went below, 

Straight to the sick man's bed went he ; 

The sick man's eyes were waxing dim, 
The captain's face he could not see. 

The sick man raised him on his bed, 
And whispered, with his failing breath, 

"My race, at length, is almost run, 
I feel the near approach of death. 

" I know you would not do me wrong. 
Your name for honor stands too high." 

The captain turned away to cough. 
He dared not meet the sick man's eye. 

"Yon box is filled with gold and gems, 
The fruits of many a weary year ; 

Bear that unto my orphaned child, 
It is my last, my only prayer." 

Thus saying, weariness came o'er. 
And closed his heavy eyes in sleep. 

Why does the captain peer around, 
And softly to the window creep? 

He takes a phial from his breast. 

And, guided by the moon's pale light. 

Pours drop by drop in the sick man's drink. 
The moon grows sicklier at the sight. 

He pours it out, whilst his features wear 
A ghastly smile in the moonbeams cold ; 



THE MURDER AT SEA. 81 

"The fishes and I will divide the spoil, — 
The sharks hie body, and I his gold." 

A death-bed is a solemn thing, 

Wherever it may chance to be ; 
But yet it far more solemn seems, 

When it occurs upon the sea. 

TSiere, every luxury that friends 
Gather around the fevered head, — 

The cooling draught, the luscious fruit, — 
Is banished from the dying bed. 

For him no pitying friend attends 

To smooth his pillow, or to stand 
With moistened handkerchief to damp 

The patient's hot and fevered hand. 

No gentle fingers wipe the dew 

Of coming death from the pale cheek ; 

No ear bends anxiously to catch 

The whispered word he fain would speak. 

No reverend man co'nsoles his fears 
With the soft words of hope and love, 

Or, whilst the parting breath is drawn. 
Directs the dying eyes above. 

No, not for him those tender cares 

That make more light the dreadful hour : 

Death hurries on, robed in the stern 
And awful majesty of power. 

Hard-favored men, well used to scenes 

Of agony and death like this, 
Gaze, careless if the parting soul 

Be doomed to misery or bliss. 



82 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Strangers to stand around the bod, — 
Strangers to watch the gasp for breath, - 

Strangers to hear the d^dng groan , — 
Strangers to close the eyes in death ! 

The sea-bu*ds' shriek his mourners' cry, 
The whistHng winds his passing bell ; 

More mournful far than that which rings 
From some old tower the dying kneU. 

Thus did that sick man die ; for him 
The raging sea had lost its dread; 

The roaring wind, the boihng wave, 
Possess no terror for the dead. 

Thus did he die ; the beating heart 
With all its griefs was now at rest : 

But, ah ! what wealth could bring repose 
Unto his murderer's guilty breast? 

Beside that cold and pallid corse, 

As cold and pale, the murderer stood ; 

What mattered that his hands were pure? 
His conscience bore the stain of blood. 

Illness was marked within his eye, 
Its cure no surgeon's skill could find ; 

Medicine may heal the sick, but what 
Can cure the fever of the mind? 

Before him, open to the sight. 
Lay the ill-omened box of gold. 

The heap of dross which formed the price 
At which his happiness was sold. 

Thus hours passed away ; 't was time 
To lay the corpse in its last bed; 



THE MURDER AT SEA. gg 

The eyes were closed, the canvas shroud 
Was sewn around the paUid dead. 

The plank was laid upon the side, 

The body brought; one moment more. 

The murderer's fear at heart would pass, 
And all dread of detection o'er. 

The ocean keeps a secret safe, 

A close accomplice is the wave ; 
Those tombed in earth may rise ao-ain, 

And call for vengeance from the grave. 

No chaplain reads the funeral rite, 
No mourning neighbors kneel to pray ; 

The plank is raised — a slide — a plunge — 
All trace of death has passed away. 

One little splash, and then the waves 

Are heaving slowly o'er the place, 
Where man, rich, proud, ambitious man, 

Has passed, nor left a single trace. 

He passed — the cold and gloomy sea 

Has shut him in its mighty tomb ; 
Can its stern, dreary aspect be 

An omen of his future doom ? 

No consecrated ground receives 

The body to its peaceful breast ; 
No prayers are said beside the grave, 

To give the parted spirit rest. 

Yet see! upon the spray appears 
The rainbow's colors, signs of grace ; 

Yes, there is hope, although no prayers 
Are whispered o'er the burying place. 



84 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

He passed, — the secret 's safe ; yet still 
The wished-for moment brought no balm; 

Within the murderer's breast the storm 
Raged still, though all without was calm. 

For every wave that dashed beneath 
Spoke sternly of the buried dead ; 

And every wind that whistled by 
Bore to his ears a tale of dread. 



MM : 

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 

[Scene. A village church-yard. In the foreground is a carefully 
weeded grave, at the head of which is a black cross hung with gar- 
lands . A group of maidens stand around, bearing wreaths and bouquets 
of flowers, which, from time to time, they strew vipon the grave.] 

Chorus. 
Lightly strew the scented flowers 

On the grave of buried worth ; 
We have stripped our fairest bowers 

Thus to deck this hallowed earth: 
As these buds to earth we fling, 
May the soul to heaven take wing ! 

Strew we first the blushing Rose, 

Emblem of holy love ; 
Then the Lily, pale, which shows 

Her innocent as is the dove : 
As these buds to earth we fling, 
May the soul to heaven take w'mgl 

Let the Crocus-flower be seen, 
Mark of Life which quickly flies ; 

And the Myrtle, ever green, 

Pledge of Hope which never dies : 

As these buds to earth we fling, 

May the soul to heaven take wing! 
8 



8G STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

[At the conclusion of the song, a man advances from behind, and 
addresses the maidens.] 

Stranger. 
Stay, gentle maidens, cease your pious task, 
And turn to me a moment, whilst I ask 
The meaning of this scene. Who sleeps beneath, 
That thus upon the grave you cast the wreath 
Of many flowers combined'? Who claims your care. 
Thus in the eventide to fill the air 
With sounds of gentle melody, whose power 
Into a pleasing sadness lulls the mind, 
Such as the contemplative often find 
Steals on their senses at the evening hour? 
What do you here? why twine you here the wreath 
Which speaks more of the bridal than of death 1 

First Maiden. 
She for whom we mourn. 
And in whose memory we meet to-night. 
To cast those ofierings on the dewy sod, 
Will ne'er to earth return ; 
Two years have winged their flight 
Since she was summoned hence to meet her God. 

Stranger. 
Was she young and fair? 

First Maiden. 
Fair she was, yet in her eye's deep blue 
We could discover marks of wondrous sadness ; 
Full oft, as on her countenance we gazed, 
She turned from us with a sigh of grief 
That spoke of woes long pent witliin her breast ; 
And when we pressed her for leave to share 



ISABEL. 87 

The load of sorrow which crushed down her heart, 
She thanked us for the kindness of our oflPer, 
But only wept the more. 

Second Maiden. 
She was the Lady Bountiful of the village. 
There is not a poor family in the place 
But has full often felt the force 
Of her sweet charity. Rustic schools 
And village institutions oft have been 
Beholden to her bounty, which descended 
Like genial showers on a thirsty land. 
Freely she gave, — not casting gold 
As worthless pebbles to a herd of swine, 
But seasoning each donation with a word 
Of good advice, which oft was valued more 
Than the bright gold by which it was accompanied. 

She oft devised 
Games for the recreation of the rustic folk, 
"Whose toilsome labor bade them seek relief 
In healthful exercise and manly sport ; 
And, as she gazed on the happy throng. 
The beams of pleasure gleaming from their eyes 
Would seem to kindle on her blanched cheek ; 
But suddenly a melancholy thought 
"Would send the tear, unbidden, to her eye. 
And banish her to her chamber, there to weep 
O'er sorrows which to us were all mysterious. 

Third Maiden. 
One fair and gentle daughter had she, 
Pale as the lily which now decks that grave, 
And graceful as the fairest swan that floats 
Upon the dimpled lake. She was the pride 
Of her who now in quiet sleeps beneath 
The dewy earth. 0, how they loved each other! 



STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Oft have I seen them twined 

In that sweet locked embrace, in which the love 

Of loving daughter and an anxious mother 

Finds means to vent itself. 

Oft, when the mother's eyes have been 

Surcharged with tears of sorrow, she has thrown 

Her pearly arms around the mourner's neck, 

And begged her, by the love they bore each other, 

To smile once more upon her Isabel. 

Stranger. 
What of this daughter? — lives she now? 

Third Maiden. 
Ay, crushed to earth by sorrow's weight, 
Like a pale snow-drop bending on its stem. 
Here night by night she comes unto this grave. 
And, kneeling on the earth, pours forth her grief 
In broken sobs and copious floods of tears ; 
'T would make a tyrant weep to see her. 

First Maiden. 
Two years are numbered with the things of yore, 
And now again comes in the mournful day 
When the sad mother in her grave was laid. 

It is a task 
In which we all delight, to deck the grave 
In which was laid our friend with flowers 
Fresh from our garden beds; thus shadowing forth, 
In this our rude and simple village style. 
The fadeless crown we hope she has attained 
In the bright heaven spread above our heads. 

Stranger. 
JMaidens ! yours is a mournful, yet a pleasing tale ; 
Pleasing, as setting forth the many virtues 



ISABEL. 89 

That decked this paragon of mortal women ; 

Yet mournful, as conveying the unwelcome truth, 

That even the best must fade. 

Soft ! who is this 

That gazes mournfully upon the earth? 

First Maiden. 
'T 'is she ; 't is Isabel ! 

Stranger. 
The gentle daughter ? — See how pale she looks ! 

Fij'st Maiden. 
Stand aside. Let us retire to the shade 
Of yonder waving boughs. She loves not company. 

[They retire to the back-ground. Isabel advances, covering her 
face with her hands, as she approaches the grave.] 

Isabel. 
They tell me it is folly thus to weep 
For one who long has left this world of strife ; 
They bid me look up to the orbed heaven, 
And calm my sorrows with the blissful thought 
That thou art seated high above the stars. 
Alas ! they know not of my selfish, grief, 
Wliich mourns more for my unprotected state 
Than that all earthly joys from thee are fled. 
My mother, 0, my mother! weeping here, 
I dare not lift mine eyes unto thy grave, 
Lest that the sad mementos of thy death 
Should strike me dead with sorrow. 
Yet why should I not? Night on night 
I 've been a constant visiter to this spot, 
And, though the 'whelming grief has swollen my heart 
8* 



90 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

Until it seemed to bui-st, yet I live on ! 
I '11 weep no more, unless to shed some drops 
Of penitence for some rash word or deed 
By which thy gentle heart was pained. 

[Removing her hands from her eyes, she looks on the grave, and 
Bees the flowers with which it is strewn. She advances, and picks 
up a wreath.] 

These are the offerings of applauding honesty, 

Given by the village maidens to the memory 

Of her who was their friend. Gentle hearts ! 

These floral offerings, these acts of love, 

With which they render homage to my mother. 

Are dearer to my heart than was the praise 

Of flippant courtiers and titled dames, 

Though given in the most flattering style that o'er 

Their ingenuity devised. Fond, loving ones ! 

They knew that twice twelve moons had waxed and waned 

Since that loved friend was placed beneath the sod, 

And they desired, by this act of love. 

To show that still she dwells within their hearts. 

May their reward be heaven ! Thus again I place 

This chaplet on thy grave, and beg thy prayers 

For her whose pious care entwined those flowers. 

And her who kneels before thee. 

Mother, remember us ! 

Ah ! well I recollect 
The wreath of simple flowers thou didst place 
Upon my youthful head, when I had knelt. 
For the first time, before yon altar rail. 
Happy hours were these ! Hours which, alas ! 
Will never more return! Mother, 
Here by thy grave I kneel, to beg that thou 
Wouldst still watch over thy poor orphan child, 



ISABEL. 91 

And guide her footsteps, lest she stray aside 
From the straight path which leads me unto thee. 

[Bends her head in prayer. The Stranger advances, and bends 
over her.] 



Surely she swoons, or else the vital spark 
Has fled forever through excess of sorrow, 
And left her lovely form thus senseless 
As is the earth she lies on. 

[He lifts her in his arms, and gazes on her face.] 

Ha ! I do remember 

A face like this. These features wondrously resemble 
Hers, whom — but she 's senseless. Help, there ! ho ! 
The lady swoons, or else her life has past ! 

[The maidens gather round. Isabel opens her eyes languidly, and 
again closes them.] 

Isabel. 
Alas, my mother, I feel very weak ! 
My head is dizzy, and a cloudy film 
Seems stretched across my eyes. 
I soon shall leave you. 

But we shall meet again in the bright heavens ; 
There we shall meet much happier 
Than e'er we have been on earth. There — let me lay 
My head upon thy bosom! Look at me, mother! 
Do I look pale ? Ah ! Heaven and our lady ! 
What means this scene? 

[She breaks from the arms of the Stranger, and, after gazing at 
him with astonishment and terror, exclaims : — ] 



92 STORIES AND LEGENDS. 

'T is he ! He comes again to mock our sorrows, 
And triumph even o'er the senseless dust. 
Avaunt ! ]My mother is no more, — thy vengeance now 
Is all completed. Touch me not ! I do not ask 
Thy charity or pity. Hence ! nor blast my sight ! 

[Falls senseless on the grave.] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



When overspent with heavy thoughts, 

And bowed down with care, 
When scorned and hunted by the world, 

Or closely pressed by fear, 
There oft arises in the mind 

A thought of days gone by, — 
Of happier scenes, and times when we 

Had not yet learned to sigh. 

A friendly word received from one 

Who to our heart is near 
Is oft forgotten, when our hopes 

Have little cause for fear ; 
But let a heavy cloud o'ershade 

Our spirit, — then we find 
That friendly word we recollect, 

And oft it soothes the mind. 



€^t (Cljtirtlj MlB. 

How many a varied history is told 

By the Church Bells that ring from yonder tower ! 



94 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Now calling to the church both young and old, 

Now calmly telling of Time's fleeting hour ; 
Now a bright holiday they usher in, 

And now in muffled tones toll for the dead ; 
Now tell a bridegroom doth a maiden win, 

And now they whisper of the dying bed. 
Full many a busy year has passed away, 

And generations with their fathers sleep, 
But still the bells ring out as in the day 

When consecrated was that ancient heap. 
The old church stands, the old bells call to prayer, 

Though a far difierent people gather there. 



^nutji'H M^. 

The Youth. 
Tell me not of fearful death ! 
I have youthful strength and breath 
Yet I 've many years to live, — 
My account I shall not give 
To you as yet. 

The Angel of Death. 
Foohsh youth, your scoffing stay ! 
You may not live out the day ; 
Here I 'm sent, my work to do, 
And, perhaps, this moment you 
I must get. 

The Youth. 
Speak not of the darksome grave. 
Or the all-engulfing wave ! 



youth's delay. 95 

Many years are yet in store, 
And Life's pleasures more and more 
Will increase. 

Life is but a round of joy, 
Pleasures all my thoughts employ ; 
Merry notes and gladsome sounds, 
Hearing which my heart rebounds, 
Never cease. 

Life is full of gorgeous flowers ; 
Fadeless amaranthine bowers 
Meet my eye in every spot ; — 
Then of Death pray tell me not 

Till I'm old; 
Then 'tis soon enough to speak 
Of the visions that will break 
From Eternity's dark wave, 
"When I 've passed through the grave 

Dark and cold. 

What need I to pray and fast, 
Till my time of youth be past ? 
Sure it cannot be a crime 
Thus to laugh away my time ; 

If it be, 
My old age I '11 give to prayer. 
And I '11 sink unto my bier. 
Weeping for my thoughtless youth ; 
But not till I 'm old, in truth, 

ShaU it be. 

The Angel of Death. 
Now prepare ! Your time is past, — 
The next moment is your last ! 



96 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Blushing rose, and woodl.inc bowers, 
Verdant fields, and noble towers, 

All are fled. 
See ! my sword is poised in air ; 
Now your breast is filled with fear ; 
Blanched with terror is your face, 
You have taken up your place 

With the dead! 



€)}t (0iinrMrin angtl. 

Child. 
Alas! to which side shall I turn? 

Where shall I lift my anxious eyes ? 
My parents, — ye whose death I mourn, — 

Ah ! take me with you to the skies ! 
A stranger in the vale of life I tread, 
Here anxious cares oppress my weary head; 
Too young and feeble am I to be hurled 
Into tliis scornful and unfeeling world ; 
O, look with pity ! snatch me from the grave ! 
Extend your hand, — a helpless orphan save ! 

The Guardian Angel. 
Mortal weak, thy mourning cease! 
I, my child, will give thee peace ; 
I vdll guard thy footsteps weak, 
To thy trcmbhng heart will speak ; 
Warning thee of danger nigh, 
Pointing alway to the sky, 
Teaching thee to banish care, 
Looking alway to be there. 



LOVE, 97 

Peace, peace, my child ! and know to thee is given 
A joyous hope, the hope of reaching heaven ! 

Child. 
Ye host of heaven ! ye angels mild ! 

0, look with pity on my fate ! 
Deign to assist an orphan child, 

Save me ere it be too late ! 
By snares of death beset on every side, 
I wander trembling through this world so wide ; 
At every door I make a fearful stand, 
But none extends to me a friendly hand ; 
None sees with sympathy an orphan's tear. 
None listens to a wretched orphan's prayer ! 

The Guardian Angel. 

Stay, my child, and say not so ! 

I thy pain and anguish know. 

Cease thy weeping, cease to grieve ; 

I thy suffering will relieve, 

I will banish all alarm. 

Shield thee from all chance of harm. 

Rest in peace, and Sorrow's dart 

Shall never harm thy trusting heart ; 
Whenever suffering makes thee shed a tear. 
Compose thy mind with thinking I am near ! 



tm. 

TnEaE is a bright, but strangely mystic shrine. 
Where kneel alike the wealthy and the poor, — 

The emperor whose crown with diamonds shine. 
And the poor wretch who begs from door to door 
The fair Circassian, and the swarthv jMoor, 
9 



98 MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS. 

Greek, Turk, and Jew, each brings his offering there, — 

All on the altar their libations pour; 
The vanquished meets his conqueror -without fear, 

For at that altar none is over other ; 
The powerful and the weak their hearts lay bare, 

Joined in one song, like brother joined with brother ; 
Whilst over head appears a snow-white dove, 
Betokening the shrine is that of LOVE ! 



long nf i\)t (Crusntori 

Lkwe your homes, ye gallant hearts ! 

Let your peaceful pastime cease ; 
Now must fly the warlike darts, — 

This is not a time for peace. 
To save the Cross from Paynim hands. 
Now we march to eastern lands. 

Throw the silken dress aside. 
Buckle on your armor good ; 

See your swords are firm and tried. 
For we march to scenes of blood. 

To save the Cross, &c. 

Raise your banners high in air. 
Let this cry go through the land, 

*'Who in Christendom -will fear 
For the Cross to raise liis hand 1 *' 

To save the Cross, &c. 

In a holy cause we fight, 
For a holy prize we try ; 



THE nOUR-GLASS. 

We are striving for our right, — 

Let us win, or nobly die ! 
To save the Cross, &c. 

Onward, then, ye nobly born ! 

Let it not be our reproof 
That our faith was laughed to scorn, 

Whilst we basely stood aloof. 
To save the Cross, &c. 

There the Holy Country stands, 

The Land for which the faithful sigh ; 
But the impious Payniin bands 
"' Between them and their wishes lie. 
To save the Cross, &c. 

Draw we, then, the sword of right ! 

Let us make the struggle now; 
If we perish In the fight, 

A glorious crown awaits our brow. 
To save the Cross, &c. 



99 



Turn we now the Hour-glass, 

Once more let the sand-stream flow 
:Mark the sands, how quick they pass, 

Dropping to their place below ! 
Every grain that drops beneath 
Brings us nearer to our death; 
Sounds which they in dropping give 
Tell how short the time to live. 



100 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And, as still they lower sink, 
Teach us it is tiiue to think ; 

See, the sands are shrinking fast, 
And this hour may be our last ! 

Clammy earth may be my bed. 
Powerless may be my hands, 
Ere the present hour is fled. 

Ere 'tis time to turn those sands. 
Life is an uncertain game ; 
Glory, honor, wealth, and fame, — 
Though we may all these command. 
They arc worthless as this sand, 
Fleeting quick as these grains pass, 
Brittle as this slender ghuss. 

See, the sands are sin-inking fast, 
And tlus hour may be the last ! 



Xnnk Hii ! 

TiiE joyful lark, with blithesome note 

And merry heart, mounts to the sky, 
And gladsomely he strains his throat 

To send his song of praise on high. 
He grovels not upon the earth, 

Absorbed in grim and carking care ; 
He knows that heaven alone is worth 

His morning song and evening prayer. 

The branches of the growing tree 
Point upward in the ambient air, 

And soon upon tlic twigs we sec 

Green leaves and beauteous flowers appear. 



SONG. iQj 

Not so with the dull, earth-bound root 
Which clings unto the sordid gi-ound ; ~ 

No leaves, or flowers, or luscious fruit, ' 
Adorn its dark and cheerless round. ' 

The mossj grave-stones jwint the spot 

Where many fellow-mortals lie ; 
Thej tell, with warnings grim, our lot, — 

Like those beneath, we too must die' ' 
Not so with the tall village spire 

Which rises far above the sod ; — 
That tells us that oiu- souls go higher, 

Nor stay until they reach their God.' 

Look up ! look up ! dream not of earth, 

Think not of trifles here below ; 
Earth's treasures are of little worth, 

Dissolving quicker than the snow.' 
Look up ! gaze upward to the sky ! 

Think only of the things above ; 
So shall you reach the world on high, 

So shall you gain Eternal Love ! "^ ' 



Inng. 

The rose's hue ^vith lilies blent, 

When glowing on the cheek of youth. 
May pleasure those whose lives are spent 

In flattery, instead of truth ; 

But such is not my prize, in sooth ; 
The miner cares not for the flowers 

That lavish deck the surface ground — 
9* 



102 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Not in the honey-suckled bowers, 

But deep in earth, the gem is found ; 
'Tis in the heart true beauty lies, 
Not in the charms which strike the eyes. 



Rise, mourner, rise ! nor waste thy tears 
Amid these mouldering heaps of clay ; 

The living world still claims thy cares, 
And bids thee chase thy griefs away ! 

Rise, mourner, rise ! all flowers must fade ; 

The Beautiful lives for a tune, 
Then in Oblivion's dust 'tis laid, 

Ere yet 't is fully past its prime ! 

The rainbow disappears from sight 
Whilst gentle tears of sorrow fall, 

But soon the smile of joyful light 

Spreads gladness o'er the terrestrial ball. 

Up, up ! nor weep for him who lies 
Beneath the green dew-spangled sod ; 

Let thy mind pierce beyond the skies, 
And praise the wisdom of thy God ! 

The grass-blades not unheeded fall, 
The insect sinks beneath HIS eyes ; 

Is man neglected more than all 1 — 

Shame, mourner ! dry thy tears and rise ! 



FRAGMENT. 108 



/rngmpEt : 



WRirrEN IN AN UNEASY HOUR. 

Would that some jovial scene would rise, 

Some thoughtless Bacchanalian throng, 
Where vrrinkled Care full hasty flies 

From sparkling cup and merry song ! 
Or that the giddy dance would twine 

Its whirling mazes round me now. 
To chase away the furrowing line 

That is deep stamped upon my brow ! 
But even 'mid the jonal throng 
Stern Thought would mix with dance and song. 

Or that the vaulted roof would rise 

Above tliis weary, aching head ; 
That, silent, I might fix my eyes 

On the memorials of the dead ! 
Musing within the hallowed walls 

Where the pale dead are sleeping near, 
I there might banish all that calls 

My mind to brood on worldly care. 
But care-worn thoughts would still find room. 
Even beside the silent tomb. 

High on a mountain's top I 'd stand, 

And gaze on vale and plain below, 
Embracing in one prospect grand 

The valleys' green, and mountains' snow ; 
Where all is silent, save the bird 

Which swoops towards its ah-y nest, 
Sure Nature's voice can there be heard. 

And Man's racked spirit there can rest. 
But thoughts severe, reproachful, rude, 
Would e'en profane this solitude. 



104 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

If there were but a bound to life, 

If there were no hereafter dread, 
0, who would bear this weary strife. 

When he could lay him with the dead? 
K, when we laid us down to die 

We knew we ne'er should rise again, 
0, then how quickly would we fly 

This world of misery and pain ! 
But there rises from the vaulted gloom 
The question, " What 's beyond the tomb? 



tm ml 3uhm\\. 

'Tis sweet to stand upon the shore, 

Of a summer night, when the moon is high, 
And the deep blue sea is spangled o'er 

With stars reflected from the sky ; 
When the silence is unbroken, save 

By the sea-bird's cry, which meets the ear 
Like a spirit's loosened from the grave, 

To haunt some spot to memory dear. 
As that summer moon-lit sea 
Is Love, ere touched by Jealousy. 

'T is dread to stand on some rocky steep 
When the raging breakers dash below, 

And watch the sea in madness leap. 
As if 't would lay its boundaries low ; 

When the thunder's crash, and the lightning's glare, 
And the shrieking -wind as it hurries by, 



THINK OF ME. 105 

Jar fearfully upon the ear, 
And sear the gazer's shrinking eye. 

A fitting type is that raging sea 

Of the curse of Love — mad Jealousy. 



€ljiiik nf 3Vx 



WiiEN the busy day is done, 
And thou sittest all alone ; 
When the stars with twinkling light 
Glitter on the face of night, 
And the moon with crescent horn 
Comes the heavens to adorn ; 
When thou gazest on the sea, 
Then, my love, 0, think of me ! 

When thy footsteps press the sod 
Over which we two have trod. 
When thou hearest the evening bells 
Fill the air with pleasing spoils. 
Or when the wind with forceful blast 
Whistles as it hurries past. 
Wherever thou mayest chance to be. 
Then, my love, 0, think of me ! 

When other lips would fain invite thee 

To scenes which might perchance dchght thee, 

And merry laugh and jocund sport 

Would make the hours seem too short, — 

When smooth tongues on thee might prevail 

To listen to their flattering tale. 

Though pleasant may the story be. 

Yet, my love, 0, think of me ! 



lOG JtflSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



^mmtW k tjiJ Vonll, 



THOUGHTS OF A RELIGIOUS, AFTER TAKING THE VOWS. 

'Tis past, — that fevered strife ! 

And now I am at rest ; 
The cares and fears of life 

Have ceased within my breast. 

I '11 fear no more the ill 

Which calumny may do ; 
My heart may now lie still, 

In its own virtue true. 

I '11 grieve no more at those 

Who proved but faithless friends ; 

These, and avoAved foes, 
Life always to us sends. 

I '11 weep not at the truth 

That Death can rob the bloom 

From off the cheek of youth, 
And hide it in the tomb. 

All earthly joys have flown. 

All earthly cares are dead ; 
With heavenward thoughts alone 

My mind shall now be fed. 

Beyond this sheltering wall 

My feet shall never stray ; 
Before the cross I '11 Ml, 

And weep my sins away. 



NEVER DESPAIR. — THE VISION. 101 



Why should we despair? 

Why be forever sighing? 
Life is never drear, 

AVhilst on Hope relying. 

To-day is dark and dreary, 
Full of care and sorrow ; 

Sad it is and weary, — 

But there comes a morrow. 

Winter stern is with us, 
With storms upon his wing 

Little joy he gives us, 

But there comes a Spring. 

Be not thus despairing. 
Ever full of sorrow ; 

Instead of evils fearing, 
Hope for the morrow. 



I LAID me on my bed, and closed my eyes, 
And as I slept I had a fearful dream. 

Methought I saw an awful FORjNI arise ; 
Death's mighty angel it to me did seem, 



108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And thus it spoke : — " Thou foolish son of cLay ! 

Thus in thy bed thou dost insensate he, 
And waste the precious moments, though each day 

Nearer and nearer brings thy time to die. 
Mortal, awake ! and lot this visit be 

A useful lesson for thy future days. 
Be watchful henceforth, for thou may'st not see 

How long or short the time Death's angel stays." 
I woke in terror, and rose from my bed ; — 
I gazed around, — the fearful form had fled ! 



€^i Irpiiratinn. 

Daughter. 
The western hills are bathed in 

A flood of golden light. 
And in the east the cold, gray shades 

Tell of approaching night. 

Lower and lower sinks the sun 

In the red western sky ; 
And now, behind the distant hills, 

'T is hidden from the eye. 

Mother, when next that sun shall set. 
Then give a thought to me ; 

For I shall be a wanderer then. 

From home, from friends, from thee. 

There is a dearer claim than these, 
Which hurries me away ; 



THE SEPARATION. 109 

A loving husband calls me hence,— 
Ah! how, then, can I stay? 

But yet thoughts of my childhood's home 

Will dwell within my heart ; 
Oft shall I weep when I recall 

The hour that bade us j^art. 

Yon gun rebukes me for delay, — 

Ah! bitter 'tis to part 
From those whose love and friendship are 

Engraven on the heart. 

Mother. 

There 's a load upon my heart, my child, which makes it well- 
nigh break ; 

And it presseth there so heavily, I scarce have power to 
speak ; 

And my eyes are dimmed with falling tears, so that I cannot 
see 

The glowing sky, or setting sun, — I can only look on thee. 

I press thee closer to my heart ; alas ! and can it be 

That thou from this maternal heart wilt so shortly have to 

flee? 
Our fireside, so cheerful once, will be sad when thou hast 

left, 
And our dwelling full of dreariness, when of its pride bereft. 

Thou wilt fondly be remembered, although so far away ; 
And thy name will still be mentioned, on each succeeding 

day; 
And all things that remind us of her who was our joy and 

pride ; 

Will be cherished for the sake of her who left her home a 

bride. 

10 



110 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Though far from us in body, to our fancy thou 'It be near, 
And at our fireside again to our fancy thou 'It appear ; 
Though between us and thy stranger-home the ocean-wave 

may flow, 
Yet in fancy thou 'It be with us still, as in days long ago. 

Now thou goest from thy home, my child, a young and new- 
made wife, 

And may he who won thy heart and hand be kind to thee 
through life ! 

And though upon a stranger soil 't is thy future lot to be, 

A father's prayer and mother's love will ever be with thee. 



The glowing sim, distended twice its size, 

Half-hidden in the distant yellow wave, 
Lit up with fiery red the western skies, 

Making them one huge furnace, save 
Where some cold, fleecy cloud would slowly rise 

To dim the splendor of bright Phoebus' grave ; 
But, changing its cold gray to gayer hue. 
It gave the gorgeous scene a grandeur new. 

Behind, the golden glare in patches lay 

On the green corn, which sometimes faintly stirred, 
As a cool zephyr passed it on his Avay ; 

The warm haymakers now began to gird 
Their scythes and rakes together, glad that Day 

Had passed, and brought their hour of rest ; the bird, 
Which to the Sun's own service doth belong, 
Now like a speck in air poured forth its song. 



FILL HIGH THE CUP I 111 

The village spire, which beckons from afar 
The weary wanderer to a place of rest, 

Stood one-half shadowed, whilst a glowing star 
Surmounted that one which the golden west 

Bathed in a flood of radiance ; every bar 

Seemed formed of sohd gold ; the statues drcst 

In Heaven's own radiance stood like angels bright, 

Sudden appearing unto human sight. 

Across the velvet turf the dappled deer. 

With many a gambol, sought the leafy shade ; 

There was the little linnet chirping clear. 
Deep in the bosom of the wooded glade, 

Unmindful of the hawk, which, poised in air. 
Made all the homeward-winging birds afraid; 

The drowsy beetle, with its hea\'y flight. 

Hastened upon the spreading oak to alight. 



,3ftll 33ig!i tliE Cup! 

Fill high the cup ! 
What heed we that the poisoned draught 

Makes hands to shake and eyes grow dim? 
Once more the tempting drink we '11 quaiT, — 

rni to the brim! 

Fill high the cup ! 
Some silly, canting people say 

God gave the fruits of earth to use. 
Whilst we the heavenly gifts abuse, — 
Poor, foolish men ! 
We know a great deal more than they ; — 
Come, fill again ! 



112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Fill high the cup ! 
What reck we if the brain confused, 
Or if our senses thus abused, 

Should leave us quite? 
Pass round again the drinking-cup ! 
With burning liquor fill it up, — 

We '11 make a night ! 

Fill high the cup ! 
Though beggary, and want, and pains. 
Seize on us, if the cup remains, 
We '11 drown the crowding cares in drink, 
And never hesitate to think 
That every drop makes greater still 

The sum of care and woe. 
Come, then, — another draught we '11 fill, 

Ere yet we go! 

Fill high the cup ! 
Though health should fail, 
And sorrow make the cheek grow pale, 
And wealth and character be lost, 
And future hopes forever crossed. 

Still fill the cup ! 
Drink, though it be our latest breath ! 
Drink, though the draught be fraught with death ! 

Fill up ! fill up ! 



England, once mighty land. 
Thy glory fades away ; 

A few revolving years may bring 
The closing of thy day. 



FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. 113 

The finger of the Future 

Is tracing on the wall 
The story of thy destiny, 

The presage of thy fall. 

Thy glorious sun is set, 

Thy sky is wrapped in gloom ; 
The star of Hope no longer shines 

Upon thy coming doom. 
Thy brave and noble people, 

Once deemed their country's pride, 
Now seek in a far-distant land 

The home thou hast denied. 

Shades of the mighty dead ! 

In vain je toiled and fought; 
Great Hampden and good Sidney bled, 

And Milton -^Tote, for naught. 
The people still are crushed 

Beneath the oppressor's hand, 
And Right and free-spoke Truth are still 

Marked with the felon brand. 

England, to thee I bear 

No jealousy or hate ; 
I turn me from thy haughty shores 

In sadness at thy fate. 
Thy cities may fall to decay, 

Thy towers sink in earth. 
But England's sons will ne'er forget 

The land that gave them birth. 
10* 



114 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



0, WOULD that I might gaze again 

On scenes I loved so well, 
And listen to the tiny stream 

Which tmkles through the dell ! 

0, would that I might tread again 

The paths I oft have trod, 
And Lear so light a heart as once 

I bore upon that sod ! 

For though upon my childhood's years 

No gentle mother smiled, 
•Still Nature with her thousand arts 

Caressed me as her child; 

And like a child I loved her well, 

And oft to her have fled, 
To seek the love I could not gain 

From the long-buried dead. 

A\^ould that I might in presence see 
Those dear-loved scenes once more ! 

Oft have I in my feverish dreams 
Beheld them o'er and o'er. 

Dear spot ! although the Atlantic waves 

My body from thee sever. 
My heart, like the encircling vine, 

Will cling to thee forever. 



"OUR ARMS AKE VICTORIOUS." 115 



'' (Diir arms m Vnilnkm ! " 

Our arms are victorious ! 
The prido of our enemies now is laid low, 
We have reddened the earth with the blood of our foe ; 
Their weapons are broken, their banners are rent. 
And their proud nodding plmnes with the tangled weeds 
blent ; 

HomeAvard, inglorious. 
Wounded and maimed, their survivors are sent. 

Our arms are victorious ! 
'T was majestic to see, by the sweet morning's light, 
Column and square rush together in fight ; 
A crash and a struggle, a shout and a yell, 
And in death the late hot-blooded combatants fell, 

Like grass 'neath the scythe ; 
Why should we shrink the dread struggle to tell? 

Who fears to die 1 

Our arms are victorious ! 
What though on our march many brethren bold 
Sank by us, and perished from hunger and cold? 
What though the reward for our strength spent in wars 
Is sickness and poverty, hunger and scars ? 

Raise ye the shout ; 
For the multitude's shout, of changeable breath. 
We have braved the approach of destruction and death, 

In their fearfullest rout. 

Our arms are victorious ! 
An aged woman is bending with grief 
Over a daily journars leaf, — 



116 MISCELLANEOUS P0E31S. 

"A glorious victory our arms liavo won! " — 
Alas I she has lost her only son ! 
Let her tears flow ! — 
Of what account is a mother's woe, 
To a glorious victory over the foe 1 

Our arms are victorious ! 
Our triumphal shout has reached the ear 
Of an anxious wife, who stops in her prayer, 
And rushes out to glad her sight 
With her husband who shared in the gallant fight. 

She sees him not ; — 
On the blood-stained field, in the evening dim, 
The wolf is tearing him limb from limb, 

Where late he fought. 

Our arms are victorious ! 
Shout for the honor and glory we've won I 
Shout for the praiseworthy deeds we have done ! 
Shout for the mothers we childless have made ! 
Shout for the widows whose husbands are laid 

'Neath the red sod ! 
Shout for the babes we have fatherless cast I 
Shout for the souls unexpectedly past 

On to their God ! 



€^t Jjilinii nf ttic Bijing txnlmt 

Darkness the earth enfolds ; 

Valley and hill 
My eye no more beholds. 

Yet gaze I still. 



THE IIYMX OF THE DYING RECLUSE. 117 

JMorn's l^lush the hills will paint 

As heretofore, 
Though I with footsteps faint 

Climb them no more. 

Though the red torch's light 

Illumes my cave, 
Unto my failing sight 

It seems a grave. 

I seek my rocky shrine, 

To bend my knee 
Before the Being Divine 

Who died for me ! 

The glimmering shrine has grown 

All dark and drear ; 
I may not at its stone 

Bend down in prayer. 

Silence and darkness press 

On tongue and eye ; — 
I turn to Heaven to bless 

Me ere I die. 

Light through the darkness drear 

Flows in a stream ; 
A heavenly sound I hear, — 

Surely I dream ! 

Power to my sight is given 

To pierce the sky; — 
If this I see is heaven, 

0, let me die I 



118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Seest thou, dearest, yonder star 
Gleaming from its home afar, 
Burning lonely like the light 
Some tall beacon shows at night? 
Dost thou mark it, dearest, — say, . 
KnoAvest thou its twinkling ray 1 

Years ago, ere thou wert mine. 
Ere a wedded life was thine, 
j\Iindest thou how we have oft 
Gazed upon its radiance soft. 
Hand in hand, and cheek to cheek, 
Looking what we could not speak? 

]Mindest thou, at evening's hour, 
How above the old gray tower, 
Hid behind a leafy screen, 
First its glittering light was seen? 
Tower and wood are far away. 
Yet behold the accustomed ray. 

When our days are numbered all. 
When like autumn leaves we fall, 
When the shadow of the tomb 
Throws o'er life its gathering gloom, 
May that well-remembered star 
Light us to our home afar ! 



THE DYING BOY TO HIS SISTER. 119 



^VuEN last we saw the fading day, 
Our native hills were growing gray ; 
And now the young moon's gentle light 
Can scarce reveal them to our sight; 
Yet merrily, safely, on we float. 
In our snug, little, pretty fishing-boat ! 

See the moonbeams gayly dancing, 
On our polished oars lightly glancing, 
And gambolling merrily with the spray 
Which our boat flings off, in her onward way ! 
See how the fish are glittering bright. 
Leaping up in the silver light ! 



Look ! a cloud has come over the moon, — 
The Storm Sprite will be on the waters soon ; 
Around with her head, and spread the sail, 
To bear us to port, ere the coming gale. 
Away from the storm like the sea-birds we float, 
Secure in our swift little fisher-boat! 



€^t Dqing 36nt[ tn jiis Mil 

Sister, ope the AA-indow-pane ; 
Let me see the sky again, 
Let me greet the sun once more, 
Ere I pass Death's gloomy door ; 
When from me he hides his light, 
'Twill be in eternal niaht. 



120 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Hark ! is that low sound I liear 
Angels' jDinions fluttering near? 
Or the sportive summer breeze 
Idling 'mongst my favorite trees 1 
Still I hear the murmuring sound 
Near my forehead playing round. 

Sister, look! the golden sky 
Speaks of evening dravring nigh ; 
Folds of rainbow-tinted cloud 
Wait the dying sun to shroud. 
Lift me up, ere he be past ; 
I would take one look, — my last ! 

See ! he sinks, and Life's last ray 

Shines upon my fading day ; 

Press me closer, sister dear ! 

Scarce thy gentle voice I hear ; 

All things fade upon my sight, — 

Now 't is dark, — good-night ! — good-night 



FINIS. 



Note. — The "Waverley Magazine" is a weekly paper, published 
in Boston, Mass., by Moses A. Dow ; and is what its title indicates, a 
journal deroted to the highest class of reading. Stories, Biography, 
History and Novels, Poems by American poets, and new Music, appear 
in its pages every week. It is the handsomest and largest paper in 
the world, at only ^2 a year, or $1 for six months, in advance. 



